2011
by Ke Roth
Summary: An A/U P/C romance
1. Chapter 1

Prologue - Part 1

"Permission to come aboard?"

The bright and cheerful voice sang out from the open hatch of the shuttle craft, less a request to enter the ship than it was an announcement of the speaker's arrival on board.

Jean-Luc Picard swiveled in the pilot's chair, grinning broadly at the newcomer, the voice - and the individual - more welcome than he would usually care to admit.

Today, however, he couldn't help but smile openly at her presence.

"Beverly!" he said happily, unabashed at revealing his delight in seeing her - then hastily swiveled back as an annoying chirp from the control board reminded him to pay attention to the pre-flight check he had been performing.

He touched a few controls, confirmed the boards settings then swiveled back to look at his old friend.

"I was afraid I was going to have to leave without you," he said, only half teasing.

"That," she said, dropping her gear bag on one of the seats, then making her way forward, "was not going to happen." Reaching the control panel, she leaned over him, planted a soft kiss on his cheek then sighed. "I can't tell you how good it is to see you, Jean-Luc," she murmured as she settled into the co-pilot's chair. "One more day at that conference, and they would have locked me up - and you would have had to come back to get me."

"Was it that boring?"

"I could have handled boring," she countered. "It was the moments of unwanted excitement that took their toll."

"Ah," he replied, understanding. "Professor Johannssen."

"It's the twenty-fifth century, Jean-Luc, not the fifth!" she growled. "What makes him think that he can grope any woman who passes him just because he finds her attractive? If I had had to put up with him for one more day, I'd be up on charges of assault - or worse."

His smiled instantly turned to a frown, and reflexively reached for her hand - only to pull it back quickly. While his consoling touch certainly wasn't in the same class as one of Johannssen's legendary attempts to molest a female co-worker, it was still inappropriate, he reminded himself. Checking the action, he looked at her. "He didn't try anything with you, did he?"

Beverly looked back at him, frowning. "I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself against a letch like Johannssen, Jean-Luc," she reminded him, a little sternly - the gentled her tone. "But thank you for being concerned. He did make a try on the first day," she admitted, "but that pressure point tactic you had me working on back on the Enterprise came in handy. I don't think he even realized what had happened," she added, smiling, her face brightening. "One minute he's reaching for my... arm," she demurred, "the next minute he was on the ground, with this rather astonished look on his face. I don't think he knew what hit him."

"I'm sorry you had to use it," Jean-Luc conceded. "Do you intend to press charges against him?"

"No," she said, "but I did write a note to the advisory board recommending that he either be offered counseling to address his issues, or not to be permitted in any situation where he's alone with a woman. Not that I'd think he'd force himself on someone - but there are a lot of first-year interns that pass through his virology lab; at that age, they can be vulnerable to the influence of an older, more mature man - especially when he is damned good looking," she added.

Picard raised a brow. "Oh?"

Beverly smiled back at him. "Oh," she agreed, laying her hand on his arm. "You should know, Jean-Luc. Half of the ensigns on the ship would do whatever you asked them to - if you ever asked them to do anything outside their assigned duties," she added.

"Which I wouldn't," he reminded her.

"I know," she countered, then leaned toward him, placing a second kiss on his cheek. "That's the other thing that makes you so attractive - your sense of honor." She rose from the chair. "I need to stow my gear before we take off," she explained. "If that bag starts rolling, I'm not sure the shuttle's inertial dampeners will be able to compensate." She made her way to the back and hefted the bag with a grunt.

"Shopping?" he asked lightly.

"Hardly," she countered as she opened a hatch, shoved the bag inside then secured the door . "Reports on the latest research on viral replication outside the host body," she said, returning to the chair. "Viruses change their replicative strategies almost as fast as we can determine what they are - and with every change, we have to shift our countermeasures in order to find them and destroy them before they start reproducing en masse. Every time we think we have them figured out, they find a new path," she sighed.

"You're talking as though the viruses were intelligent," he commented.

"They aren't - but they have survived as a life form far longer than most creatures - and they do it by adapting to the environment. It's not conscious, so it's not intelligence - but it's a survival mechanism that has kept them in existence longer than we have been," she replied. "The research that was presented at the forum was directed at addressing viral agents that have a faster reaction time to the newest viral strategies - although there hasn't been much success along those lines," she sighed. "Unfortunately, everyone had their own reasoning as to why - and everyone insisted on presenting those reasons - and presenting me with a copy of their reports for me to take back," she added wearily.

"Haven't your colleagues heard of subspace transmissions?" he quipped.

"They have – but someone at Starfleet Medical made a recommendation that all research data be submitted in hard copy as well as by transmission, to avoid the possibility of miscommunication of technical data due to subspace dropouts," she replied with a frustrated sigh.

Picard smiled. "I believe that 'someone' was you," he reminded her.

"It was," Beverly admitted. "Little did I know it would translate into my having to haul around a hundred padds," she complained. "Fortunately, hauling all of those back and forth to my hotel eliminated the need for my having to work out every day – not that I would have had time for it, or for shopping. What little shopping I did - and I assure you there was very little spare time for anything, let alone a shopping spree through San Francisco - was for the essentials."

"The essentials?" he pressed. "New shoes?"

"Actually," she replied haughtily, "I bought something for _you_."

He raised a brow in curiosity and in question. "Indeed."

"Indeed. A pound of Earl Grey. The real stuff," she added. "At least for a time you'll have a respite from the replicator version," she added.

His eyes widened slightly, impressed - and honored. Replicated tea was almost - _almost -_ as good as the real thing - and thus, most people didn't bother with hunting out the source of the brew. For Beverly to have spent what little free time she had to have searched out - and found - the scented leaves was touching. Although, he added with a grin, it probably wasn't the only thing she had sought out.

"And for yourself?" he asked.

"For me?" she replied innocently, a hand raised to her chest in feigned protest. "My dear captain..."

"Sumatran? Or something else?"

She smiled, unable to maintain the pretense against the man who knew her better than anyone else alive. "Celebes Kallosi. After the wars there in the 21st century, most of the plantations were destroyed - but there's been a resurgence in interest in the restoring the heritage crops - so I called in a favor, transported over - speaking of which, we have got to spend a few days on the islands on our next holiday, Jean-Luc; the ocean was crystal clear and the weather perfect! -and," she continued without breaking the original thought, "found a pound of the beans for myself. It turns out that Paul - he's the resident botanist - has a fondness for Earl Grey, and has it brought in for his own enjoyment. We worked out a deal, and I got a pound of tea for you and a pound of beans for me."

Picard smiled his appreciation - then allowed himself a frown. "Should I ask what type of a deal you negotiated?"

"Nothing like that," she countered firmly. "I agreed to read one of his daughter's papers and review it for possible submission to the Federation science council."

"And...?"

"And what?"

"And how is the paper?"

She rolled her eyes. "I have no idea, Jean-Luc! I don't know about you, but I have spent the last two weeks running non-stop! I've barely had a chance to catch my breath - let alone read a report! I was hoping to get a chance to read it on the trip back to the Enterprise. If I wait until we get there, it's going to be weeks before I'm caught up with reports - providing that I survive Will's infamous New Year's Eve party," she added.

He smiled. "I could contact the Enterprise and tell them the rendezvous will be delayed - not long, but time enough to spare us both the party," he added.

"Will would just change course in order to make sure we show up. I think you instilled a little too much tenacity in your first officer," she added.

"It's hardly my fault that Will wants to have a good time - and wants everyone else to have one as well," Picard protested.

"Well, this year, I'm planning to show up just for a glass of champagne at midnight, then sneak back to my quarters while no one's looking," she confessed, not permitting herself the thought of catching a quick midnight kiss as well - at least not in ten Forward with everyone looking on - then gave him a suspicious look. "Unless, of course, you had the same thing in mind. We can't both disappear." Or rather we could, she added wordlessly, but that would only add to the already overloaded rumor mill that occupied the crew's off-hours. Having both been off-ship and on Earth at the same time would have already had started more than enough rumors - even though they had both been so busy we haven't even spoken by communicator for almost two weeks! she protested. Both of us disappearing as soon as we get back would only add fuel to a fire that was already burning far too brightly.

"We could if the ship's captain suffered a minor medical emergency," he offered. "You are, after all, my personal physician and therefore would have to attend to any injury I might suffer."

"What are you thinking? Cutting your hand on a broken champagne glass?"

He scoffed at the idea. "The son of a vintner cutting his hand on a wine glass? Unlikely. I was thinking something more believable - like a sprained ankle from my less-than-graceful attempts to lead the ship's CMO across the dance floor," he proposed.

"That's no better," Beverly replied. "You're a wonderful dancer," she said remembering the many times they had practiced together before an ambassadorial function - and, she thought with a smile, how most of those practices had lasted far longer than was necessary. His prowess on the dance floor, however, was a fact that he kept as well hidden as she kept her own dancing predilection. "But," she continued before he could protest, "I'm willing to play along with the premise - as long as you promise to take me dancing somewhere else after we get free."

He smiled. "Your assurances to the contrary aside, we'll probably wind up back in Sickbay - tending to your stepped-upon toes."

"That's my offer, Captain," she laughed. "Take it or leave it."

"In that case, I see I have no option," he sighed in mock resignation - as though the thought of another evening spent with Beverly were an undue burden. "That simply leaves the matter of where we should go."

"The holodeck?"

"I suspect it's already been reserved for the evening - and I presume the arboretum will be equally popular. In any case, we can hardly leave the party to go to Sickbay only to be seen somewhere else. My quarters?" he suggested.

His quarters, she mused. The two of them alone, together, with a glass of champagne, some soft music, some close dancing... perhaps that midnight kiss wouldn't be so unlikely after all, she told herself -and judging from the smile on Jean-Luc's face, she thought, perhaps he was thinking the same thing. "It's a date then," she agreed. "Now we just have to get back to the Enterprise early enough so I can unpack all those padds - and find something to wear," she continued. "I really didn't have a chance to do any shopping while I was at the conference.

"And speaking of conferences, how were your meetings?" she continued.

"Five days with the Admiralty discussing promotion protocols, three days reviewing admission requirement changes for the Academy, and all followed by a summit of the archaeological council," he sighed unhappily.

"I thought you were looking forward to the council meeting," she reminded him.

"I was - until Graber insisted on raising the issue of the removal of replicators as standard field issue, due to the possibility of their use to replicate - or destroy - artifacts in order to prove or disprove a given theory. K'vortmaka took it as a personal insult..."

"Knowing those two, I assume that is exactly what it was," she interjected.

"It was," he agreed, "but there are certain pretenses that have to be maintained or we'd never get anything accomplished, Beverly. Nonetheless, K'vortmaka took offense - and suddenly everyone was taking sides over the issue. It wasn't until Maripotha reminded them that without replicators they'd have to carry in their all their supplies as well as use full sanitation protocols to avoid biological contamination that they were able to calm down - but the remaining time was spent discussing encryption processes that would mark all created materials as being off-site products."

"In other words, they accomplished nothing," she concluded.

"Not one damned thing. If I had known that was going to happen, I would have joined you on your trip to your coffee plantation and talked you into an unplanned holiday," he informed her.

I might have talked you into something more as well, he added to himself.

"Next trip, Jean-Luc," she assured him. "Next trip to Earth - and I promise we'll both get away from meetings and conferences and just have a holiday."

"I'm going to hold you to that," he said.

She smiled back, knowing the game they both were playing - and wondering if, or when, either of them would admit that it was a game - or perhaps, admit that it wasn't.

"I presume our replicator is functioning - no encryption processes to worry about?" she asked. "I skipped breakfast."

"The replicator's working - but if lunch can wait a few minutes, I can get clearance for an early departure," he said. "Then I can put it on autopilot, and we can eat together. If you don't mind," he added hastily.

"My pleasure," she said, settling back into the co-pilot's chair. "What's the ETA with the Enterprise?"

"Twelve hours," he answered.

"Twelve hours?" she replied in astonishment.

He gave a rueful shrug. "Let's just say that a Starfleet captain who doesn't need a shuttle with warp speed capabilities doesn't get a shuttle with warp speed capabilities."

"More likely they just don't want someone stealing it while it's on auto-pilot returning to Earth," she said. "Rumor has it that there are Ferengi and Orion pirates hiding in the asteroid belt around Mars, helping themselves to any merchandise that may happen by them."

"So far it's just that - a rumor - but that hasn't stopped Starfleet from increasing security patrols. Even so, if it is the Ferengi, they're managing to get the ships out of the system without so much as a trace of the ships being left behind. Fortunately, this ship is not going to provoke any interest from a would-be pirate - but it is going to slow our return to the Enterprise."

"I suppose there's a good side to it," she tried optimistically. "We might not reach the Enterprise in time for Will's New Year's party," she said.

"It's not that slow, Doctor," Picard countered with a smile. "And we'll pick up some speed by performing a slingshot around the sun and meet the Enterprise halfway," he added.

Beverly frowned. "I'm not sure I'm happy about the idea of using the slingshot technique," she murmured.

"You don't trust my flying?" he teased.

"I don't trust the shields," she countered.

Picard grinned at her frown, knowing full well the memories that must have been racing through her mind. "Not to worry; we're not entering the coronasphere. No metaphysic shielding required this time - just a standard slingshot technique. It saves time and fuel..."

"And it lets you play with your ship," she sighed. "Oh well, I suppose you're entitled after two weeks of these conferences," she decided.

'Playing' indeed, he thought with a silent harrumph as Beverly took the co-pilot's seat - but the smile on his lips refused to fade away.


	2. Chapter 2

Prologue - Part 2

An hour later, the two were still seated, but this time it was across the small table that served as the shuttle's makeshift desk, dinner table - or whatever flat surface was needed. The temporary lunch table now held two near-empty bowls, the faint traces of a red liquid on the sides and bottoms the only remnants of the cioppino that had been their lunch.

Beverly sighed contentedly. "That was delicious, Jean-Luc. I had really hoped to get to the wharf this time for a decent meal - but every evening seemed to be filled with those God-awful cocktail parties. If I see one more Cappelan artichoke finger sandwich..." She left the thought trail off as she shuddered.

"At least they fed you," he countered. "Nechayev doesn't seem to have a problem working through every meal - then leaving us to fend for ourselves long after the commissary closed for the night. We're in San Francisco for two weeks - and I've been relegated to eating from my hotel room replicator," he informed her.

"Bachelor chow," she murmured.

Picard raised a brow in question.

"That's what Jack used to call it, when the two of you would work all day, then grab whatever was the fastest item the replicator could make," she explained.

He smiled back, his eyes glinting with good humor. "If I remember right, wasn't there a time you planned to do something very much like that? Camping in front of the replicator with a fork?" he reminded her.

"That was entire different, my dear Captain," she protested. "I had been deprived of food for some time..." Her voice trailed off as the memory of that conversation washed over her - followed by the situation - and the days that had followed.

I hurt you, she thought to herself, reminding herself once more of how badly she had damaged their relationship when all she had wanted to do was _not_ to damage it. I hurt you - but I didn't mean to do that. I am so sorry, she added to herself.

To herself.

She had apologized a hundred - a thousand - times, but the words had always been silent ones; apologies thought, but never spoken.

She stared into the hazel eyes of the man she admired, respected, loved - and more than a few times lusted for - and saw the pain that still resided there - the pain she had caused him - and decided the time for silence was long gone.

It was, she added, almost the new year. What better time to start again than with the start of a new year?

Beverly reached for his hand, wrapping her much smaller one over the back of his, letting her long delicate fingers slide over the back of his hand, curling them into the opened palm - then felt his hand tighten slightly.

"I never meant to hurt you," she said softly. "I just didn't want to risk what we had," she added. "I cherished your friendship, Jean-Luc, I cherished what we had together. Risking that - even for something that could have been much more - wasn't something I could do. Our friendship was my refuge, my sanctuary... I didn't want to lose that."

"You wouldn't have," he said, perhaps a little too brusquely.

"But I did," she countered. "I didn't mean to - but by not being willing to trust you - or me - I wound up damaging our friendship just as surely as if..."

"As if we had tried to take the relationship further - and failed?" he asked.

She nodded.

"And now?"

"Now? Now... Now, I don't know. It would be presumptuous of me to assume that we can let this all pass by unnoted; that you would be willing to try again after all these years. You've moved on..."

"As have you," he reminded her.

She nodded soberly.

"But even so," he continued, "I have never stopped loving you," he said, gently caressing her hand.

"Or I you," she agreed.

They stared into one another's eyes for a long moment then Beverly sighed. "So where do we go from here, Jean-Luc? Pretend the last few years haven't happened?"

He smiled, shaking his head. "No. We've both become different people in that time - and I for one do not wish to go back. But," he continued, tightening his grip on her hand, "there is nothing that is stopping us from going forward," he said softly.

"Forward," she said. "As...?" she pressed tentatively.

"As friends - always," he said cautiously, watching her eyes carefully – and finding himself hopeful at the flash of disappointment there. "From there..." he continued tentatively, "Well, perhaps we should simply allow time to guide us. With a little assistance," he added - then pulled her hand - and her body - toward him. She rose to follow it, and found herself leaning over their makeshift dinner table.

Their lips met in a tender kiss - but a chaste one, the table that held their lunch preventing the embrace from becoming any more intimate.

Pulling back before she fell into the remains of the fish stew, Beverly straightened slowly, releasing his hand reluctantly and easing herself back into her chair, her eyes locked upon Jean-Luc's. "I think," she said after a long moment of watching him, "I should have apologized some time ago."

"It wasn't the time," he answered softly, soberly. "As much as I would have liked it, it wasn't the time for either of us - or rather, then time for the both of us. We both needed to be ready and willing to progress in our relationship - not just me," he added.

"It wasn't just you, Jean-Luc. From the night on Kes-Prytt, I knew I was ready as well..."

"You said you were scared," he interrupted.

"I said maybe 'we' should be scared," Beverly corrected him. "Let's be honest, Jean-Luc, we've both grown very comfortable with who and what we are - and neither one of us wants to move from that comfort zone. You couldn't do it with Nella, or Anij..."

"They weren't you," he pointed out.

"And I couldn't do it either," she continued, pushing aside his comment. "I couldn't be the head of Starfleet Medical. It wasn't what I was familiar with; it wasn't comfortable. I was quite comfortable and secure being Beverly Crusher, widow of Jack Crusher, mother of Wesley CMO of the Enterprise - just as you were comfortable and secure in being captain of the Enterprise and very confirmed bachelor. Even what you felt toward me was a part of that security; as long as you had your unrequited love for me, you didn't have to risk yourself in another relationship.

"And as much as I loved you, I was not ready to step out of that comfort zone - and I'm not sure you were really ready either," she said.

He tried not to bristle at her implication that he hadn't been sincere in his words that night, so many years before...

But she was right, he knew. Yes, he had loved her - and still did - but it had taken him more than twenty years to confess his feelings to her. Had he really thought that the words and actions of only a few days would make him ready to that those feelings into a far more public setting?

Or had he thought he could have kept their relationship private? he wondered. Would Beverly have tolerated that - a clandestine affair that no one else could know about, the two of them getting together only when no one else would suspect they were romantically engaged.

No; while he knew he could trust her with his most intimate of secrets, this was not, could not and should never be one of them. Either their relationship had to be one that was publically known - if not publically gossiped about, he added sternly - or it could not exist.

All the more reason to move slowly then, he told himself; his heart might be ready to accept a relationship with Beverly, but he wasn't sure his sense of self was up to the task of that relationship being publicly recognized.

And discussed, he added with a grimace.

Sensing the cause of his wrinkled brow, Beverly gave a soft laugh, leaned forward and placed a kiss on his forehead. "One step at a time," she assured him. "One step at a time."

Picard smiled – albeit somewhat anxiously – then settled back in his chair. "Indeed," he agreed, forcing himself to relax as much as possible. "And the first step…?"

"Our attendance at Will's New Year's Eve party," Beverly said – then, as she watched his frown lines reappear, hastily added, "or rather, our disappearance from the party. I think you and I need some time together before we bring in the entire crew," she said. "For now however…" She started to rise.

He looked at her, a curious – and hopeful - look on his face, which was quickly dashed as she shook her head. "For now, my dear Jean-Luc, I need to start in on reading those papers – or I won't be able to celebrate the evening with you, Will or anyone."

"And we are approaching the point to initiate the slingshot," he conceded, rising as well.

"I'll clear the table then," Beverly replied.

"You're just avoiding the inevitable," Picard answered.

"No," Beverly answered, "I'm just allowing you to focus on getting us around the sun without turning us to plasma."

He grinned then turned back to the control area. Settling back into his chair, he took the ship of automatic control, checked the readouts, and confirmed the program. Everything was still as it had been: on schedule and on route for the prosaic flight maneuver.

"Do you want me to let you know when we're about to begin the turn?" he called back as Beverly moved the dishes to the replicator.

"No," she said, the hint of terseness in her voice belying her worry.

Picard turned to look at his companion. "You really don't trust me to execute this, do you?" he said.

Hearing the hurt in his voice, Beverly quickly moved to his side. "I trust your skills, Jean-Luc – but I've had more than enough experiences flying a shuttle in close proximity to a star. I'll sit this one out at the back of the cabin, if you don't mind," she added.

His bruised ego appeased, he nodded, then watched her as she secured one of the padds, sat in one of the chairs, thumbed on the machine – and gave a tired sigh.

Turning back, Picard smiled, understanding Beverly's reaction all too well; in just a few hours time he would be giving that same sigh as Will presented him with two weeks of reports that had accumulated, all requiring his review, comment or approval.

That was the hell of taking time away from the command chair, he thought to himself; it wasn't that he disliked holidays: he simply hated the vast amounts of work that awaited him upon his return. It was rare that the time away from the ship offset the time needed to catch up – and if it hadn't been for Beverly and Deanna harassing him into taking the time, he suspected he never would.

But this would be worse, he knew full well; two weeks away on Federation business with no chance to relax or refresh himself – and the same overload of work to greet him on his return.

Perhaps, he conceded, it was time to consider _not_ returning; he was, after all, almost eighty years old; he had given Starfleet a lifetime of hard work and dedication; maybe, at long last, it was time to consider stepping down and pursuing one of the other interests of his life…

Such as what? he admitted. He was a good amateur archaeologist – but an amateur nonetheless. A freelance negotiator? he mused. He certainly had both the reputation and the skills – but that reputation would always place him in the shadow of the Federation; there would always be those who would doubt his ability to be impartial – and truth be told, he wasn't entirely sure he could fairly represent someone whose goals were in conflict with those lofty ideals.

The vineyard, then? That was always an option, as Marie had expressed no desire to continue the family business since Robert's death – but the manager she had hired had done a far better job of running the vineyard than he ever could, he admitted. At best he would be a dilettante, dabbling in the family business; at worst, a failure, running the family business and the vineyard's reputation into the ground as he tried to learn and perform in a few brief years what had taken Robert a lifetime to accomplish.

And what of Beverly? he wondered. He might well be considering retiring – but Beverly was almost twenty years his junior – and at the height of her career. She could hardly be interested in giving it up just because he had grown tired of his position on the ship…

He gave a brief chuckle. That was the crux of the matter, he thought to himself; he _was_ tired – and justifiably. Two weeks of unrelenting meetings without break were not a vacation - and now that they were over, he was exhausted and ready for a long over-due holiday.

He glanced back at his companion, noting the dark circles beneath her eyes, and decided he was not the only one in need of a holiday. Perhaps a long one, he added – and perhaps not alone; at last count, he had more than year's leave accumulated; Beverly had a similar amount of time due her.

And maybe it would give them the time and opportunity to evaluate their relationship away from the pressure of the ship – and the pressures of public scrutiny.

The faint chirp of the control board reminded him that he was only seconds away from the beginning of the slingshot; he turned, still grinning at the thought of a holiday with Beverly, and focused once more on the controls. While the computer was more than capable of executing the technique without his participation, he enjoyed piloting the shuttle – even an older and slower shuttle like the one Starfleet had loaned him for this occasion.

He checked the program, silently counted off the remaining seconds then touched the communicator switch. "Shuttle Feynman to Starfleet Command."

"Go ahead, Feynman," came the response.

"Shuttle Feynman is ready to initiate slingshot technique," Picard informed them.

"Proceed, Feynman. You'll be out of contact throughout the maneuver; please check in with Command when you clear the coronasphere on the other side. Good luck, Captain Picard," the voice added.

"Understood, Command," the captain answered. "Picard out," he added.

He released the breath he had not been aware he had been holding, then glanced back at Beverly, hoping that she hadn't heard the sound; it would not do to have her know that, despite his apparent confidence, he was always hesitant at performing this technique. The sun was, after all, huge – and a shuttle - was infinitesimal in comparison. One false move, one error in a calculation – and they would be lost without hope of being saved – but that possibility was remote. The computer would see to it that he executed each step at exactly the right moment – or it would do so for him.

Admittedly, that reassurance took some of the adventure out of navigating the small vessel – but using the sun to accelerate the ship was far more complex than doing the same thing around a planet.

Still, Picard was looking forward to the challenge. His eyes locked on the board, he counted off the minutes and seconds, making each adjustment as scheduled – and was rewarded as the scanners continued to display their approval of the corrections.

He was so engrossed in his work that his conscious mind only vaguely registered the flash of light at one side of the screen; instead, he glanced up, saw nothing awry, then turned back to the board.

A moment later, the phenomenon repeated itself; alerted by the first flash, a part of his mind was ready to catch the second occurrence, and his hands raced from controlling the ship to reaching for the sensors.

But even his fastest motions were too slow; fighting the enormous gravity well of the sun, the momentarily uncontrolled ship jerked violently.

He pulled his hands back to the controls, stabilizing their flight path even as a third flash appeared.

What the devil…?

"Beverly!" he barked out.

Alerted by the unexpected motion, however, she had already begun to make her way to the front of the ship. "What happened?"

He ignored the question, risking a momentary release from the controls and pointed at the seat beside him. "I need a sensor sweep in sector oh-seven-five. "

She sat down and immediately began the search. "What am I looking for?" she asked.

"I don't know. I just saw a flash… There!" he called out, gesturing with his head. "What is it? What's causing that?" he .

Beverly started the search only to shake her head a moment later. "There's nothing there… let me try a level two… it's not gravimetric, not electro-magnetic…"

"It's repeating," he remarked. "If it's at a constant rate, it's not a naturally occurring phenomenon."

"What are you thinking?" she asked even as she continued the sensor sweeps.

"A ship in trouble," he murmured. "Maybe the missing shuttles?"

She changed the sensor configuration, then shook her head. "No significant matter in that area; mass readings are within area norms…" Her voice faltered. "Jean-Luc, wasn't there something in the history books about starships using the sun to propel themselves backward through time."

"Backward and forward," he corrected her. "The Enterprise did it twice under Kirk's command – but both times, they were at warp. We're still at sublight speeds," he added, as if to reassure her.

"That may be," she answered, "but I'm reading a significant temporal disturbance in the sector – and we're moving toward it," she added worriedly.

Moving toward it? he thought to himself. "We can't be," he continued aloud. "Our course hasn't changed; we're locked in this orbit…"

"Well, then it's moving toward us!" she insisted. "Either way, the temporal particle flux is growing stronger. Jean-Luc, it's going to hit us," she suddenly realized.

"How long?" he snapped back, his mind racing. If he could get the shuttle off this trajectory, maybe they could dodge the phenomenon – but to do so meant overriding the computer's lock on their course, and the shuttle's computers were designed to prevent just that from happening.

Beverly ran her hands over the board. "One minute… no, two minutes, ten seconds. Nine… eight…"

"All right," he said decisively. "I can't break out of this course – but we may be able to accelerate; that will shift us into a higher orbit and it may miss us. It's going to get rough, so strap yourself in."

Beverly abandoned the controls, pulling the seats harness around her securely – then realized Picard hadn't done so.

"Jean-Luc…" she started, but he had already begun to input the changes.

The ship gave a violent shudder, throwing her against the straps – and nearly tossing Picard from his seat.

She reached for the harness release, knowing that if she didn't get him locked into the pilot's chair, he was going to be hurt – or worse – and that they would both die when that happened.

Seeing the movement, he glanced at her – then snapped his attention back to the console. "Stay strapped in," he warned.

"What about you?" she pressed.

He shook his head. "Nothing I can do about that; I can't take my hands off the controls until we're free of this," he told her as the ship gave another shudder, accompanied by an ominous groan.

_"_I that case, I take back everything I said about your 'playing' with ships," she informed him. "You're the best pilot I know – and if anyone can get us out of this, it's you. It's just a question of whether anyone can get us out of this, she added.

"I'll do my best," he replied. "The problem is that accelerating into the gravity well is going to increase our speed at ejection. The good news is that the computer will reset the ship's course to return to Earth when we escape." He glanced at her with an apologetic smile. "We're going to miss that rendezvous with the Enterprise," he said.

"Well, that's one way to get out of going to Will's party," she replied.

He managed a smile, then touched a control – and the ship gave a violent shake. "Brace yourself, Beverly. Here we go."


	3. Chapter 3

Prologue - Part 3

A sound, faint, barely audible, slowly penetrated his awareness, something besides the dull throb at his head and chest: a faint sound, air moving back and forth.

Beverly, he thought dully - then felt relief wash over him.

She's alive, he realized after a few moments.

We're both alive – then blackness claimed him again.

Later – minutes, hours, centuries – another sound, equally faint – began to penetrate the black haze.

"Jean-Luc? Jean-Luc?"

A hand, soft and gentle, touched him – and he felt himself smile.

"Beverly," he answered in a dry, almost raspy voice.

"Jean-Luc," the voice repeated, the worry fading.

He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice – then closed them quickly as a blade of pain knifed into his head.

"Lie still," she said quickly. "You got tossed around pretty badly. I don't want you to move until I check you over."

"You're all right?" he asked, opening his eyes once more, fighting the pain just so he could try to see her.

Even in the dark of the shuttle, he could see the outline of her head moving, see the faint trace of a smile on her face.

"A little banged up - but nothing serious," she said.

"We made it?" he asked foggily

"We made it," she insisted. "I'm not sure where we made it to – but we've landed. Somewhere," she added a little uncertainly.

Despite the pain, he began to sit up.

"Jean-Luc," she cautioned.

"I'm all right," he insisted.

"No, you're not: you have a bad laceration on your head, maybe a concussion," she explained. "I can't be sure; I can't find the medical scanner."

It took him a moment to understand her problem; the ship's internal lights were off, and the little illumination they had was cast by the control panel scanner. From the little light it cast, he could see that everything in the shuttle had been strewn about; he could vaguely make out one of the control area chairs, the table where they had shared lunch – but everything else was nothing more than a jumble.

"It's all right," he insisted "I'm fine."

"Let me be the judge of that," Beverly replied, her terse tone barely hiding her concern.

He opened his mouth to protest - then stopped. There was no need to hurry to get up, he decided; the computer defaults would have brought them back to Earth; their untoward landing would have triggered the automatic initiation of a distress beacon. Help would already be on its way, he realized.

He gave a sigh, then lay back - only to give a start as he felt Beverly's hands pressing on his leg.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

He couldn't see it, but he knew she smiled at the question. "Checking for breaks. I can't find the scanner - so we'll do this the old-fashioned way - by touch. Let me know if anything hurts."

"_Everything_ hurts," he admitted, "but I don't think anything is broken."

"It won't hurt for me to check," she replied.

Despite the situation, the 'old-fashioned way' of checking for broken bones had a few advantages over the use of a scanner he decided as she slowly felt her way up both of his legs, then his torso, then his arms. Her touch was gentle, soft, warm... A sudden rush of pain washed over him as she touched the right side of his chest and he gave a gasp.

"Sore?" she asked worriedly, pulling her hands back.

"Yes," he managed through a ragged breath.

"I'll try to be gentle," she said, starting to touch the area again, "but I need to check to see if your ribs are broken."

Braced against the pain, he steeled himself for the touch - but it was far gentler this time, her fingers now delicately probing the area with as much caution as she could allow herself.

"I don't think there's anything broken, Jean-Luc, but you're going to have a hell of a bruise," she assured him.

"Which I trust you'll fix when we get back to Starfleet," he countered.

He could sense her nod at the remark, and once again reminded himself how fortunate he was to have a CMO who was also an experienced commander in her own right. She understood that they were going to have to report back before they returned to the Enterprise.

"So you think that chronometric disturbance is what's causing the ships to disappear?" she said.

"It makes sense," he replied, slowly easing himself into a sitting position, gratefully accepting Beverly's assistance as she took his arm to help him. "We got out of it because I was able to work with the computer to outpace it - but without someone on board who could realize what was happening and adjust the course, those unmanned ships would just get pulled into the field and disappear. We'll need to report the phenomenon to Starfleet and have them post a buoy to warn ships off that route."

"Providing that it's a natural phenomenon," Beverly interjected.

He gave her a quizzical look. In the dark of the shuttle, she couldn't see it - but after thirty years of knowing the man, she knew the look was there.

"Since when do temporal phenomenon spontaneously develop?" she asked.

He studied her in the dark. "You think the Ferengi are behind it?"

"Or the Orions - or whoever is after those shuttles," she explained. "Wait until the unmanned ships are out of contact with Starfleet then send them to a different time where they can pick them up at their leisure. It would explain why there's no evidence of anyone taking them - only missing ships."

"Temporal engineering? That seems a bit complex just to steal a few shuttles," Picard replied.

"Maybe - or maybe it's just the first phase of something bigger," she mused. "If there's enough profit in it, most Ferengi's are willing to try just about anything," she reminded him.

"You may be right," he conceded. "You can advise Starfleet about your thoughts when we get back to San Francisco," he said.

"If we get back," she muttered, just below her breath - but not quite below his level of hearing.

"What?"

"Jean-Luc, I don't know if they are coming to get us. We've been here for a long time..."

"Beverly, we just landed..." he protested.

"We landed hours ago," she interrupted. "The front viewport is covered with snow - which means the ship has cooled off enough for the snow to stick. That takes time, Jean-Luc."

Despite her protests, he pushed himself to his feet then unsteadily made his way to the console.

Looking over the displays, he gave a faint sigh of relief as his first concern - that the emergency transponder had been damaged - was assuaged. It was clearly lit, showing that they were, indeed, broadcasting an emergency alert - and on a world that was surrounded by hundreds of thousands of receivers designed to alert authorities to any emergency, it simply wasn't possible that they weren't being heard.

Except, he added, they weren't, he realized. Beverly was right; the viewscreen of the ship was covered with a layer of snow - and given the limited amount of light that was being admitted, that layer must have been fairly thick.

He ran the numbers in his head, quickly calculating how long it would have taken for the ship to cool off to the extent where snow would stick... Eight hours, he determined. Maybe longer.

They weren't coming to get them.

"The signal isn't getting out, is it?" Beverly said, moving to join him at the board.

"I don't think so," he admitted. "While the transponder shows that it is working, my guess is that it was damaged in the crash, or perhaps we've picked up some ionization from the pass by the sun or the temporal vortex. We'll try getting clear of the shuttle then use our communicators. Once we get hold of Starfleet, they'll beam us out of here. Chin up, Doctor," he insisted. "If nothing else, Will knows we're missing by now; he'll be in touch with Starfleet and they'll start a search - if they haven't already. I doubt he's going to let us miss that party that easily," he reassured her.

"I think we've already missed it," she replied; at least there was one good thing about crashing the shuttle, she mused to herself.

"Indeed," he agreed, a faint smile playing on his lips as a similar thought crossed his mind.

She glanced at him, and even in the faint light of the shuttle, he could see her mischievous smile. "Don't think you're getting out of taking me dancing that easily, Captain," she said.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he answered, "but getting out of here _is_ something I'd like to do."

"We're going to need some warm clothing."

"We aren't going to be outside that long," he replied. "If you'd prefer, you can stay inside; I'll only be a few minutes," he added.

She gave him a curious look then shook her head. "Jean-Luc, if you haven't noticed, the temperature of the ship is dropping. Environmental controls are off-line; the ship's power systems are failing. I've used the few heat packs we had in the emergency kit to keep you warm while you were unconscious. It's going to get cold - fast," she told him.

"What do you suggest?" he asked acerbically.

"I suggest we get dressed and make for the nearest town."

"Which is where?" he pressed.

"Out there, somewhere," she replied tartly. "I don't know, Jean-Luc - but I do not that we're not going to get rescued by staying here, waiting. It's been hours - and they haven't found us. They haven't even tried to contact us. If we're going to get rescued, we're going to have to do it ourselves!" She stared at him for an angry moment - then blew out a sigh of frustration. "Look, we'll walk for... an hour. We use the tricorder to scan for power signatures. If we find them, we walk in that direction; if we don't…if we don't, we'll make our way back here and wait," she concluded.

He studied her for a long moment - then nodded, conceding the point. "Alright. Try to replicate some ration packs while you're at it. If we're losing power, I want to make sure we've got supplies available, just in case it does take them some time to find us - or for us to find them," he added, his concern somewhat ameliorated by the knowledge that they were on Earth. The water was drinkable, the air was breathable, food was available - if they could find it, catch it and prepare it, he added. They could always build a fire to keep themselves warm until they could be rescued, he reminded himself.

We're been in far worse situations, he thought, and we've survived.

"All right: we walk for one hour. If we find no signs of civilization, we turn back and return to the shuttle," he said. "Let's leave a note for anyone who might come after us," he added. "For all we know, they've mounted a search, but just haven't been able to get here - it is snowing after all," he added - then realized what he had said.

Beverly nodded. "I know. That means either the weather grid is down - which means that the priority is going to be in repairing it so they can mount a search - of that we're somewhere where the weather isn't controlled. "

"Alaska," Picard replied, remembering Will's comments about his homelands fierce determination not to let their native weather be altered by the climate controlling satellites.

"Siberia," she countered grimly.

Despite the situation, he smiled. "Or perhaps in the Swiss Alps," he posed. "I've always wanted to take you there for a holiday."

"Yes, but you had said something about chalets and hot mulled wine - not hiking down a glacier," she replied as brightly as she could.

"Then chalets and mulled wine it must be," he agreed. "By dawn, I'm sure we'll find ourselves in the middle of a town, surrounded by a backerei, a conditorei and a thousand skiers headed for the slopes," he laughed.

"I'm holding you to it, Captain," Beverly answered.

A few minutes later and the two found themselves dressed in parkas and boots, the scanner and tricorder securely packed in Beverly's medical bag.

Looking to his companion for confirmation of her readiness, Picard touched the hatch control - then looked out into the depths of a thick forest. Flakes of snow drifted slowly down, slowed by the canopy of pine trees that reached above them. A thick blanket of snow lay on every surface, testifying to the duration of the storm - and somewhere in the distance the faint howl of wind sent a chill up his spine.

This was Earth, he reminded himself: utterly beautiful, even in the midst of a winter storm - but even so, a cold and potentially deadly place.

But a crashed shuttlecraft could be equally lethal.

Pulling on his gloves, he stepped from the shuttle, reached a hand to Beverly to help her out, then touched the control to close the shuttle door.

"Which way?" he asked.

She looked around - then pointed. "Down. If we're in the mountains, we want to get to the valley area - there's a better chance of a town - or at least some people - being there. But keep your eyes open for lights, sounds from a road... anything that might indicate we're moving toward civilization."

"Agreed," he said, then stepped forward, only to stop again and turn to his friend. "Oh, and before I forget: Happy New Year, Doctor."

She gave him a curious look.

"It must be after midnight," he reminded her.

"Oh. Then Happy New Year, Captain," she answered.

They stared awkwardly at each other for a long moment - then he stepped toward her pulling her gently until she met him.

"As much as I did not want to attend Will's party, I did wish to spend this evening with you," he said, "and I was hoping..."

"Yes?" she whispered back.

He studied her another moment, then leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against her lips.

She tensed for a moment - then eased into the kiss, enjoying the touch.

A snowflake, soft but cold, landed on her nose. It melted, leaving an icy drop of water to run down her face and land on their joined lips, the bitter touch reminding them of where they were. Reluctantly they pulled apart - but he retained her gloved hand in his.

"Happy New Year," he said softly.

"Happy New Year," she answered back.


	4. Chapter 4

January 1- pt 1

Not for the first time, Picard was thankful to Starfleet for their ongoing efforts to create the optimum survival gear; the artificial fur lining the hood of his parka kept the worst of the bitter cold from his face – but even so, tendrils of the fierce cold would sneak past the fur lined hood and rush against his bare face – making him equally thankful that Beverly had insisted they change from their uniforms into more appropriate clothing.

The thick high-necked sweater kept the wind from chilling more than his face, the insulated trousers kept his legs warm, the knitted cap kept his head from losing too much heat and the heavy mittens did the same for his hand – but their warmth added a layer of danger as well. Even though getting to safety quickly was critical, they also would have to move slowly and carefully to avoid working up a sweat, lest that moisture chill them and the resultant hypothermia kill them.

A slow but steady pace, Picard decided silently – then turned to face his companion, who was sliding the medical scanner into the bag that carried the tricorder, sheltering herself behind the side of the shuttlecraft as they prepared to face the storm head on.

"It's going to be impossible to use the scanner or tricorder with these mittens on," she informed him as she closed the pack.

"That might be for the best," he opined. "As much as possible, I want to reserve their use for when we need it. Let's take a bearing, then proceed, using dead reckoning as much for as long as we can."

Beverly shook her head in frustration. "If we don't check our direction often enough, Jean-Luc, that term might get a little too close to being correct."

"At least we know we're on Earth; the geology is fairly consistent," he reassured her. "Given the angle of the terrain, we know we're on a steep hill and given the weather, more likely we're on a mountainside. As most cities and towns are located within mountain valleys, we need to proceed downward."

"Providing there is a town there," she added gloomily.

"If not, there will almost inevitably be a road – and if not a road, perhaps a track that will lead us further down," he insisted – then smiled at her gently. "We will be found," he assured her. "Once Will realizes we're not back – and given that he insisted we not miss this party – he will alert the authorities here on Earth. They will find us."

Beverly gave a shake of her head. "It's not that I don't believe you, Jean-Luc – but if you really felt that we'd be rescued, you would have argued in favor of staying here in the shuttlecraft."

He stared at his friend, tempted to counter her argument – then gave a sigh of his own. "You're right," he conceded. "It's not that I don't think Will will mount a rescue attempt – but if the weather grid is out – as it appears that it is – we won't be the only ones in need of rescue. I think that we'll have a better chance of getting to safety if we take maters into our own hands, and not rely on what might be an overtaxed emergency system," he admitted.

"And you're right about the power drain on the tricorder and the scanner," she replied in return. "Nonetheless, let's stop every hour and take a bearing – and trying scanning for the communications system. Maybe the grid outage is localized, and once we're clear of the area, they'll hear us," she suggested.

That was a possibility, Picard agreed silently, refusing to give in to a deep foreboding that the weather grid failure was part of a larger, more pervasive problem. That dread, he chided himself quickly, was nothing more than the reverberance of a week of doom-and-gloom conferences about everything that could – and had and was – going wrong in Starfleet of late.

Looking around the crashed shuttle, he scanned the terrain, then determined the direction that most closely appeared to be 'down'; reaching for Beverly's mittened hand, he took it in his own, and slowly began to walk.

The conference had not solely been focused on the problems in Starfleet, he reminded himself – but inevitably, the discussion had come back to the shortcomings and failures that the Admiralty had seen in their subordinates. Some were legitimate complaints, Picard thought, which had led to some interesting – and vociferous – discussions with the other captains at the gathering – but some - no, he amended, more than some - had been issues that were borne of the unfilled personal hopes and desires of several admirals, rather than real problems.

No, he argued silently against one admiral who had spoken out a one meeting, we have not found a way to defeat the Borg – if there was a way to completely defeat them – and if they wanted to commit genocide against a race whose members were as much victims as they had been. That philosophical and moral question had been quickly backburnered, he remembered, with anyone who questioned the issue being mercilessly harassed in return.

There had been a time – oh, so long ago – when he had thought that insightful opinion and thought was a valued quality in the upper echelons of Starfleet; that a good captain wasn't just a man who was a military strategist – but a man, or woman, who could think and act on his own as well as in strict compliance with regulations.

Indeed, he murmured silently, I remembering telling Data just that only a few years ago, he remember – that Starfleet wants captains who can think and act beyond the limitations of the orders.

Was I wrong? he wondered.

"Maybe you just need a vacation," Beverly said, her voice almost lost in the wind, even though she walked only a few paces away from him.

He pulled her closer. "I'm sorry?"

She pushed at the fur surrounding the hood of her parka, holding it back so it wouldn't blow into her mouth as she spoke. "I know that sigh," she explained. "You're frustrated with the Admiralty – again. Who was it this time? Nechayev?"

"Clark," he conceded.

"Clark," she repeated with a knowing nod. "I should have guessed. Off again about wiping out the Borg?"

"I don't disagree with him, but..."

"But the Borg now include a substantial number of Starfleet members," she said.

"If we could get them back, we might still be able to save them – but he won't listen," Picard protested.

"In a way, he might be right," she countered. "After so many years, we might not be able to restore them... but," she added before he could disagree, "We could give them a chance at a life of their own, even if it wasn't the life they lost. But he doesn't understand that – or he won't understand that," she said.

"For him, it is a matter of right – and wrong. The Borg killed thousand of Starfleet officers and crewmen – therefore, they are all the enemy," he said.

"Including you," she added

He nodded soberly.

"Jean-Luc, there's nothing you can do about him – except be thankful that he is in the minority, and that on his own, he can do nothing. Cooler and more rational heads will prevail," she reminded him.

"This time," he murmured.

She nodded. "This time," she agreed – then stopped, turned and faced him. "Jean-Luc, you have some options. One, accept the offer that Nechayev's been dangling in front of you – and take the promotion to Admiral. At least there you can have some power against morons like William Clark."

He sighed. "Beverly, I'm not sure..."

"I know," she interrupted. "Of course, you could take the position at the head of the Academy – you may not be able to change the universe for the next generation – but you could change the next generation for the universe," she reminded him.

"I don't know that that would suit me any better," he countered.

"You could retire," she reminded him.

It wasn't the first time they had discussed that option – but it still felt... wrong, Picard thought. There was still so much he could do from where he was... couldn't he? he added wordlessly, wondering just how much strength he still wielded in Starfleet – and how much was just his imagination – and how much was his ego.

"Or you could take a vacation," Beverly reiterated with a grin.

He pulled back, surprised by that comment.

"You haven't taken a holiday since that adventure back on Risa," she reminded him. "You've got months of leave coming. Why not take a few weeks, think over your options and consider what you want to do – and give yourself a little time to relax?" she said. "God knows you need it," she added.

"What does _that_ mean?" he asked.

"It means you're tired – you look tired, you act tired – you need a break, my dear captain," she said.

He felt his shoulders tense at her suggestion – then forced them to relax. "I might do that," he said at last.

She laughed, turning back into the storm. "Of course you will," she chuckled. "Just after the sun goes nova."

"Hmpf," he grumbled – then had a flash of sudden inspiration, though whether the idea that came to mind was one of hope or simply a way to dissuade her from bringing up the same topic again, he wasn't sure.

"I tell you what, Beverly," he said cautiously, "I'll take a holiday... if you will," he replied.

Beverly stopped short again, turning to face her friend. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said I would take a vacation – if you will," Picard repeated. "After all, it's been almost as long for you as it has been for me; you have as much leave accumulated as I do. And if I need a holiday – so must you."

She gave him a wary look. "Is that a threat, Jean-Luc?" she asked coldly.

He pulled back, surprised by her reaction. "It was meant to be... an invitation," he replied instantly – found himself surprised by his response.

Beverly stared at him for a long moment – then said, "Where?"

He laughed. "Someplace where we don't have to walk down the side of a mountain!" he replied, then reached for her hand.

"Oh, I don't know," Beverly replied. "Mountains have their advantages. Skiing..."

"I don't ski," he reminded her.

"Then chalets with mulled wine before a roaring fire," she proposed. "You do still like firelight, don't you, Jean-Luc? And wine? You still enjoy wine."

"I do," he murmured, smiling as the faint light that reflected off the snowy hill twinkled merrily in her eyes.

"And fierce winter storms that are best enjoyed through thick panes of insulated glass – and from under the thick comforters of a big bed," she added.

He stared at her, his mouth agape at the suggestion, unsure if she were teasing him or not.

Of course she was teasing him, he conceded a second later – but that didn't mean that there wasn't a trace of truth behind the jest.

"One bed – or two?" he countered.

Delighted that he had neither discounted the idea nor changed the topic, Beverly smiled. "I guess we'll just have to see, my dear captain," she said – then, his hand still in hers, turned away again.

For a time, the two walked in silence – in part so Picard could play her words over and over in his mind – and in part because the thin forest was letting more snow reach the ground. The partially denuded trees overhead were filtering out a fair amount of the snow and lessening the winds – but the same thin coverage had allowed branches and vines to grow unrestricted on the ground, making each step perilous and demanding their full attention.

In these conditions, even a sprain could be fatal, Picard realized; without access to help, surviving on the exposed hillside for long would be impossible. Treading carefully, they worked their way down the hill side – but after an hour, Picard began to question the wisdom of their idea.

Calling for a stop, he took the tricorder from Beverly's bag and began to scan the area.

"Anything?" she asked.

He shook his head disappointedly. "Given the low power, the range is limited – but I was hoping for some sign of a town or village – power readings of some sort, or perhaps a signal from the communications system – but I'm getting nothing beyond a faint power signature," he admitted.

"If the weather grid is down, Jean-Luc, the power systems might have failed as well," she said. "It's rare, but it has happened before; when Nana and I lived on Caldos, the grid failed after every storm. The same thing might have happened here as well," she suggested.

Now that was a possibility, he concurred; too often communities became so dependent on the weather grid that they didn't build their homes – or their utility systems – with any contingencies for facing those possibilities. When this storm hit, they might have lost power, communications – everything.

That would explain it, he decided – but it also meant that the chance of anyone being able to come out solely to rescue them was growing more and more unlikely with each passing moment.

If they were to be rescued, it was going to be by their own doing.

Even so, even with the blizzard-like conditions blowing down their faces, it still was better than facing another of Will's New Year's Eve parties, he added.

"Which direction now?" Beverly asked.

"The terrain seems to be leveling out," he observed. "We might be at or near the bottom of this valley. I'd like to follow it – toward that power signature if possible," he added.

"Do you think it might be a town?"

"More likely it's a power substation running on reserves – or perhaps a single residence using a battery back-up system. Either way, we might be able to find some shelter until this wind lets up," he added with a shiver.

"Are you getting cold?" she asked worriedly.

"No," he lied. "You?"

"Never better, my dear captain," she replied.

He slid the tricorder back into its pack then pulled his mitten over his fingers. The glove quickly warmed the digits and he flexed his fingers against the residual ache from cold.

Relieved, he stood, reached for Beverly's hand and pointed in the direction of the weak power signature.

Despite the relative flatness of the terrain, they quickly realized that the wind and snow were wearing them out far more quickly than they could tolerate. Moving onto the hillside a few hundred feet moved them back into the depths of the tress, sheltering them from a degree of the snow and the cold – but adding to the difficulty of their movement, and forcing them to stop more often to verify their path.

After their third stop, as Picard put the tricorder away once more, Beverly froze – then pushed back her hood.

"What?" Picard asked. "What is it?"

"I hear something. A... roar? Maybe a rumble? Something very faint, very low... Something underground?" she suggested uncertainly.

Following suit, Picard pushed back his hood as well, straining to hear the sound against the wind, then shook his head, opening his mouth to disagree...

... then heard it – whatever _it_ was.

Faint, low – more a vibration than a sound – but so quiet he could barely make it out.

"It almost sounds like a shuttlecraft engine," he suggested.

"Whatever it is, it sounds nearby. Let's see if we can't find it – and get out of this storm for a while," she said hopefully.

"You lead," he suggested. "You can hear it better than I can."

She nodded, then lowered her head, focusing on the sound – then began to walk.

Out of the wind and spared from the worst of the storm's snow, there was a certain enchantment to their walk; though no starlight or moonlight reached the woods, the snowfall that had settled to the ground reflected what little light there was – and the woods were filled with a faint glow, and the sound – the sound! Picard thought amazed – of snowflakes hitting the leaves, the branches, the ground.

"This reminds me of my childhood," he said softly.

"I thought you said there was a weather grid in LaBarre," she reminded him.

"There is – to a degree. The vintners agreed to limit the severe weather, but that some extremes were actually good for the wines, changing their characteristics every year," he agreed. "But one year, we traveled to my maternal grandparent's home for the Christmas holidays," he explained. "They didn't have a grid there – and the day we arrived, the snow started. Robert and my cousins loved it; they had a war started within moments, with snowballs flying everywhere," he smiled.

"Mostly at you," she surmised.

"No," he countered, still smiling. "I was only four - too young to be the subject of any great sport. And too young to participate," he added. "So I headed into the woods. This... reminds me of that," he said softly. "The snow, the trees..." His voice trailed off.

She tightened her hold on his hand. "Jean-Luc?" she said worriedly.

"That was the last year my grandfather was alive. He was ill that winter – dying, in fact – which is why father permitted us to be away from home for the holiday. He and Maman knew it would be our last chance to see our grandfather alive."

There was a melancholy in his voice that alarmed Beverly. "What did he die of, Jean-Luc?" she asked softly.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But... the man I knew as my grandfather was not the man I saw that winter. He was old, enfeebled... He didn't know who we were. He would rage against everything, then fall silent... There were moments he would look at us – and in those brief moments, I could see him struggling, fighting to remember, to recognize us – then the light would fade and the rage return. He died that spring – and I remember feeling... relieved. Happy that his pain was over," he admitted.

For a long moment Beverly was silent, then she asked, "Did your grandfather have Irumodic Syndrome?"

Jen-Luc turned to meet her gaze – but he only shook his head in response. "Maybe. The local doctor didn't have the ability to make that sort of diagnosis. He did know it was nothing he could cure – but he suspected that it could be treated. Grandfather would have no part of that, of course; he didn't want to be shipped off to Paris to live out his days in a hospital, facing treatment after treatment, prolonging a life that was, for him, ending. I don't know that I would want that either – but I'm not sure I would want anyone to see me in the condition he was in during those last months," he added.

Beverly watched him for a time, seeing the emotion, the memories of the loss play over his face – then stepped closer to him.

"And you see your days ending that same way?" she asked quietly.

"I... accept that it is a possibility," he conceded.

"Even though every scan I've taken of you has shown no defects in the parietal lobe?" she added.

"You yourself said that the syndrome could still develop – even with no signs being present at this time," he reminded her.

She sighed. "Jean-Luc, did it ever occur to you that your Grandfather did not have Irumodic Syndrome – but that Q saw that memory, that concern about how you might die, deep inside you, and used it to manipulate you?' she asked.

He pulled back, startled by the idea.

"It would be just like Q," she continued, "to find those places you are most vulnerable – and stab at your deepest worries and concerns in order to get what he wanted from you," she reminded him.

"I..." he began.

"For all you know, Jean-Luc, you'll die at hundred and forty, surrounded by your children and grandchildren, discussing Shakespeare or politics or heaven knows what! To dwell on what might never be... You know, Jean-Luc, you can be a very morbid man, sometimes," she said.

He fell silent, stunned by her tirade – then managed a feeble, "Yes, but... I don't have children or grandchildren."

She grinned. "Well, then I guess it would have to be the one bed in that chalet," she chuckled to his astonishment. "But it won't be either if we don't get off this mountain!" she added, pulling at his hand. "Let's find out what's making that noise!"

After a short time, he began to hear more clearly – a faint rumble, a roar, at times just a vibration – constantly changing, yet always present.

And somehow vaguely familiar, he knew.

Cresting the next ridge, the sound suddenly swelled – not into a fully audible range, but clearly announcing that they were drawing close to the source – and to something else.

Below them, glinting from between the trees, twinkling in the falling snow, lay a vast expanse of smooth, even flatness.

"A road," Beverly gasped – then turned to him, kissed him on the mouth – then turned back. "It's a road!" she cried triumphantly, then began to hurry toward it.

Stunned by the unexpected – but ever-so-welcome - kiss, Picard lagged behind as Beverly forged ahead, hurrying toward their possible salvation.

And time suddenly slowed.

Slowed as he watched Beverly running, slowed as he realized what the odd roar had been, slowed as he finally – finally! – realized what the 'road' really was – then slowed to infinite crawl as he cried out to stop her.

It was far too late, of course; even as he called out, he saw her step into the snow covered surface, he saw the thin ice over the raging river crack and give way, saw her fall into the racing waters, saw her body being instantly overcome and swept downstream.

And as time returned to its regular pace, he knew there was nothing he could do to save her.

He raced to the water's edge, watching as Beverly was driven against the thin ice that covered the river, her frantic movements only serving to break them as she flailed about, trying to stop herself, calling out to her even as he tried to keep apace with her on the river's bank, then watching in horror as her motions slowed, then stopped altogether.

He shouted at her – but she was beyond hearing him, he knew – and if he didn't do something, he knew she would be beyond everything in a few more minutes. Drawing on ever iota of strength he had ever possessed, he ran as far ahead as he could – then leapt onto the frozen river just ahead of her limp body

The frigid water seized him instantly, the shock sucking the energy from his body, threatening to pull him into unconsciousness as quickly as it had overcome Beverly – but he refused to yield. Forcing his arms apart, spreading out the weight of his body as much as possible against the thin ice covering the water, he waited – and a moment later was rewarded by the dull thud of a body impacting his own.

He pulled his arms around her, drawing him close to her – but with their weight now concentrated again, the ice cracked and gave way, sending them further down the river's course.

He kicked, trying to propel the two of them back toward the water's edge, but he could make no headway against the strong current. Every now and then he could feel the scrape of mud and rocks against the soles of his shoes, and he knew that they were only feet from safety – but the cold water was draining his energy too quickly.

They had only minutes left, he knew. Turning Beverly's head to face his, he uttered a soft apology and leaned forward to kiss her good-bye – then felt something big and heavy slam into his back, stopping their movement in the water.

Craning his head around, he made out the limbs of an old fallen tree lying halfway in the water, the thick trunk catching every bit of flotsam and jetsam that passed until enough built up to be swept downstream again.

Tightening his grip around Beverly, he reached out with his other hand, searching for a handhold; finding one, he pulled them closer and closer to the shore until he could feel the riverbed beneath his boots.

Frozen, exhausted, he slowly worked his way onto the river bank then deposited Beverly on the shore, collapsing beside her, gasping from his efforts – then turned to her.

She was unconscious, but still breathing, he realized with a sigh of relief – relief that was short-lived.

They were both soaked through from the freezing water; given the conditions here, they wouldn't survive more than an hour – if that.

He had to find shelter; he had to find help – and he had to take her with him, he knew equally well.

"Beverly!" he shouted from behind teeth chattering from the cold. "Beverly! Wake up!"

She stirred slightly, lifting her head a fraction of an inch, then let it fall to her chest again.

"Damn it, Beverly, wake up!" he yelled, then grabbed her arms and shook her.

She gasped at the violent motion, her eyes flying open as she stared at him without recognition – then she began to sink back again.

"Oh, no, you don't," he informed her, standing, pulling her to her feet.

"Jean-Luc," she began to protest.

"Stay with me Beverly," he insisted. "Stay awake."

"I'm cold," she said.

"You fell in the water. We both did," he explained – then added, "Your patients fell into a river. They are soaked through – and they're in a blizzard. What do you do?" he pressed.

She stared at him emptily, then gave a faint laugh. "You're the captain, Captain; what did your Starfleet survival courses teach you?" she countered.

"It's been some time since I was marooned on an ice planet," he replied. "I usually get left on desert worlds. So what do I do?" he pressed her.

Her mind foggy from hypothermia, she hesitated briefly, trying to force herself to think. "We need to get warm."

"There's no way to start a fire here, Beverly," he said. "We left the phasers on the shuttlecraft," he continued, silently reminding himself that the same phenomenon that had drained the scanners of most of their power seemed to have done the same thing to the phasers – and almost everything else on the small vessel.

"Then we need to find shelter, get out of these wet clothes, and try to get warm," she said wearily.

"All right. If we've reached the river, we're definitely moving in the right direction: gravity will continue to take it down towards a city or town – and that's where we'll find shelter," he said firmly.

Forcing himself to his feet, he reached for her arm, lifted her wearily, Muttering, "Come on, Beverly; I can't do this alone."

She made a faint sound of response, attempted to pull her feet beneath her – then collapsed against him, almost taking him down with her as she fell.

"Leave me, Jean-Luc," she murmured. "I can't move. You're going to have to go and get help."

"None of that, Doctor," he said with forced decisiveness. "We're doing this together – or not at all. Now come on," he said, pulling her upright once more, and beginning to walk.

Whether they walked an hour or only a few minutes, he didn't know. He was beyond anything except moving his feet one step further, moving Beverly with him. Left, right, left – that was all that mattered.

After a time, the steps became harder and harder to manage; he struggled against each one, no longer aware of the cold, the water, the pain – until he could bear it no more. Easing Beverly to the snow-covered ground, he sat beside her, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her head to his.

"I can't go on, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "I can't feel my legs; I haven't been able to feel my feet or hands for some time. You're going to have to leave me here and go get help."

He stared at the too-pale face, the lips that were turning blue – and realized that she was right. She couldn't go any further. If he was to find help, Beverly was going to have to stay behind.

Except she couldn't survive here, he knew; exhausted, soaked through and without shelter from the wind and snow, she would last, at most, another hour or so – but a cold-induced sleep would take her before that. Exhausted, frozen to the core, she would drift into sleep... and never wake up.

"I can't leave you here," he told her.

"You don't have a choice," she replied.

"I can carry you..."

"For how long? A minute – a mile?" She shook her head. "No; you have to leave me here; you have to conserve your strength to find help," she said.

He stared at her for a moment, knowing she was right – then put his arm around her, pulling her closer to him. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I never meant... I just wish... The next storm we'll spend in that chalet," he whispered. "I promise," he added, then kissed her hair softly. "Oh, Beverly, why did I never tell you that I..."

But she was beyond hearing his words - and he wasn't far behind, for he didn't hear it; either lost in his thoughts, his words to Beverly or just too overwhelmed by the cold and fatigue, he didn't hear the behemoth until it was almost upon them – but in an instant it roared out of the night at them, brilliant lights shining through the thickly falling snow, blinding Picard as it aimed directly for the two hapless travelers.


	5. Chapter 5

January 1- pt 2

Instinctively, Jean-Luc dove over Beverly, covering her with his body, then felt a huge wash of snow plow over him.

Then the sound of a hatch opening, the rush of feet, the voice of a young man...

"Son of a bitch! I almost hit you! What the fuck are you doing on the road in the middle of a blizzard?" raged the young voice, heavy with an unfamiliar accent – then instantly mellowed as he saw Picard's bruised and torn face. "Christ, man, are you okay?"

Stunned, shocked, exhausted, Picard rose to his feet, turned to face the voice, but the cold and fatigue had robbed him of all but the most basic speech. Finally, between chattering teeth, Picard managed, "She… we fell in the river."

The young man looked down in horror at the fallen mound at Picard's feet, suddenly realizing it was a person. Crouching beside Beverly's body, the man pulled back the edge of the parka, stared at the ashen face, then swore.

"Fuck. Fuck!" he said, then looked around, uncertain – then came to a decision. "Get her in the car," he ordered, pointing at the vehicle behind him.

Picard turned to stare at the behemoth – then recognized it as a replica of an ancient Earth ground vehicle. A part of his brain instantly understood that the power failures that they had suspected must have been widespread, reducing people to using every form of transport they could find that didn't rely on the power grid – including, he decided from the faint scent of burning fossil fuel, these old internal combustion engine transports.

A second part of his brain pushed the analysis back, urging him to pick up Beverly – but his body had reached its own limits. He stumbled, almost falling, before the young man came to his assistance.

Lifting Beverly's arm, he put it over his shoulders, then swept her up, carrying her to the rear door of the transport; he lowered her, supporting his weight against his body, then gestured for Picard to enter the vehicle first.

"Slide in," the man ordered, "then you help pull her in – okay?"

Picard nodded dully, following the instructions; he quickly moved across the seat, then reached for Beverly's shoulders, pulling her in and across his lap, holding her to him tightly.

The door slammed shut behind them – then the sound of a second, unseen hatch opening and closing filled the small space – the man opened the door to the front set of seats.

Turning, he grinned, holding up a small package. "Thermal blanket," he explained, then tore one edge of the package open, unfolded a paper thin piece of silver fabric, and handed it back to Picard. "Ma gave that to me years ago – part of the emergency kit she said to keep with me. I never thought I'd need it! I'm glad I didn't throw it out!" he said, then added, "Take her coat off. Yours too – you're both soaking wet - and wrap that around the both of you. It's supposed to hold in your body heat. I'll crank the heat up," he added, turning his attention back to the control console.

A moment later, a blast of warm air hit Picard in the face. "Sorry!" the man said, quickly adjusting a lever, directing the flow of air lower. "Didn't mean to cook you. Now..."

He touched a control on the console, and a woman's soft voice came over the vehicle's speakers.

"OnStar. How can I assist you?"

"Hi! My name's Gy Edrickson..."

"Yes, Mr. Edrickson. Our system shows you near the intersection of Route 56 and Route 25. Do you require assistance?"

"No. I'm fine. The car's fine. I need to get to Delnor Hospital. Can you tell me if the roads are open?" he asked.

There was a moment of hesitation from the disembodied voice. "Route 25 is open, sir – but both Randall and 31 are closed. The Batavia police have also closed Wilson Street."

"No problem. I can get to Fabyan..."

"Fabyan is closed at the bridge over the Fox River, sir," the voice said.

"Shit. Okay; I have two injured people in my car. What hospital _can_ I get to from here?"

"St. Joseph Hospital in Elgin..." she began.

"That's fifteen miles," he muttered. "A half hour on a good day, and 25 isn't good even on a good day. What else?"

"Nothing else, sir," the voice said. "However, there is a 24-hour emergency clinic that is open at Kirk and Route 38 in St. Charles. I can give you directions to that location," she offered.

"No thanks," he replied. "I know where it is. 'Preciate the help!" he added.

"My pleasure, Mr. Edrickson. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No, thanks."

"Please drive carefully, sir, and don't hesitate to contact On Star for any further assistance."

"Thanks," he repeated – then touched the control, and turned to face his passengers.

"Okay. I'm going to try for the clinic – but I can't guarantee anything in this weather. Just how bad are you two hurt?" he asked.

"Hypothermia," Picard said. "Exposure."

"No broken bones? Internal injuries?"

Picard shook his head. "No. I don't think so. We had to walk... Beverly didn't say she was hurt..." he said vaguely, his thoughts still muddled by the effects of the cold.

The man blew out a sigh – then muttered, "Okay." Turning to the front again, he touched a control, and two arms began to move the snow from the front of the vehicle. "You two hunker down back there. I've got an idea – but this may take a little work," he said, then added in a very soft voice, "and a little sweet talking."

Out the vehicle into gear, he touched the console once more.

A woman's voice, older and more mature, called out this time. "Gy, if you're on the road in this storm..."

"Ma, I'm on the way home," he said, "and I'm bringing a couple of friends with me."

Patricia Edrickson waited until the outer door to the garage had just closed – then hurried into the enclosed space, pulling open the back door – and looking down into the ghostly visages of Jean-Luc Picard and Beverly Crusher, both now lost to fatigue and exhaustion.

"My God," she murmured, then looked at her son questioningly. "These are your friends? What the devil happened?"

"Actually, I don't know who they are," he admitted. "I was coming over the river at Butterfield – and there they were, in the middle of the road."

"Gy! You didn't hit them, did you?" she asked, aghast.

"Ma!" he replied, indignant – then calmed, explaining, "No, I didn't hit them. They were just there, sitting in the middle of the road, covered in snow. I stopped – barely. When I got out to see what had happened, I realized there were two of them. He," Gy pointed at the sleeping Picard, "said they had fallen in the river – but his face is a mess. I'm guessing they had an accident, maybe slid off the road into the water..."

"There's no road by the water for miles – unless maybe they were at a party at one of the boathouses down there," she added.

"Whatever the case, they were in the middle of the road, soaked to the skin, covered in snow – and now they're here," he concluded.

"When they should be in a hospital," she sighed reluctantly.

"And they would be – if the roads were open. But they're not, Mom. It was either bring them home with me – or leave them in the middle of the road," he said soberly.

"All right; let's get them in the house. I'll see if Ralph can come over and check them out," she added.

"Ralph would do anything is he thought he could get in your pants," the man countered.

"And...?"

"Ma!" the man cried, appalled.

Pat grinned, then looked down at her charge once again. Extending a hand, she touched Picard's shoulder once – then again, then a third time, shaking him gently. "Hey. Wakey-wakey!"

Eyes, exhausted and world weary, slowly opened to look at the woman, unrecognizing and unaware.

"Wakey-wakey," she repeated, shaking him again. "Come on, mister. Let's get you out of the car and into the house."

Picard stared at her – then awareness snapped into place. His eyes cleared instantly. "Beverly!" he said hoarsely, looking around him in panicked confusion.

"Don't you worry; your wife is right beside you," Pat reassured him. "Come on, let's get you into the house."

Vaguely reassured, Picard let himself be guided from the car while Gy gently eased Beverly over the seats, then lifted her into his arms. Following Pat and Picard into the house, he closed the door behind them, then trailed the two up a flight of stairs and into a bedroom.

"Put her on that chair," Pat directed her son, then looked at Picard, appraising him quickly. "Gy, get some dry clothes for your friend and show him where the shower is, while I get Beverly out of these wet things."

Taking Picard's arm, Gy led the man to an adjacent room. "Don't worry; Mom will take care of your lady friend. Shower is in there," he said, pointing to a door. "I've got some sweats you can put on while your clothes dry out," he added, moving to a bureau, opening a drawer and pulling out some non-descript clothes, then handing them to Picard. "Don't fall asleep in there," he added with a grin, then turned and left the room.

For a long moment, Picard stared, first at the door, then at the clothes – and then at the door that Gy had indicated. Acting without thinking, he followed the man's directions, entering the small room – and finding himself confronting a bathroom not unlike the ones in his family home in LaBarre.

An antique toilet – in remarkably good condition – an ancient shower stall – even an old-fashioned sink with a faucet! A sensation of familiarity washed over him, and he quickly stripped off the water logged clothes, turned on the water jets in the shower and stepped in.

He stood in the center of the stream of water, unmoving, letting it wash over him, slowly chasing back the cold that had soaked into his very bones, his mind empty, numb, unable to process anything for several minutes – then habit slowly returned.

Finding what appeared to be a body cleanser, he washed himself, scouring off the dirt and mud from the river, the allowed himself a longer moment to rinse himself off before stepping from the shower.

True to form, no body blade dryers were visible in the antiquated space – but a thick white towel had been placed near the shower. He dried himself, then slowly, awkwardly dressed in the loose fitting clothes that the young man had given him.

As he pulled the sweatshirt over his head, there was a light tapping on the door.

"John?" a woman's voice called. "Are you dressed?"

Pat pushed open the door – then smiled when she found him dressed – and awake. "Thank goodness. I was afraid you might have fallen asleep in there. Come on; let's get you into bed," she insisted. "Beverly's already sound asleep," she added softly. "Ralph - that's Dr. Kinthes - is on his way over, but he said to keep you two warm until he gets here."

A part of his mind told him that he needed to find out where they were, to try to contact Starfleet Command, to try to contact his ship – that he needed to fulfill his duties as a ship's captain, as Beverly's commanding officer – but the demands of the day were claiming greater possession of his mind and body. He numbly followed Pat into the bedroom, then, seeing Beverly already ensconced beneath a thick comforter and seemingly asleep, he followed suit. Even as his head reached the soft pillow, his eyes were closing, and his body and mind drifted into unconsciousness.

Pat pulled the comforter over him, then stepped back, sighing in contentment at a job well done, even as a flight of worry swept over her.

Leaving the room, she closed the door behind her - and turned to confront her son. "Downstairs," she ordered firmly then pushed past him and moved down the staircase.

But she did so with a very light step, Gy noted, trying not to smile; for a woman of her size, it was an accomplishment - but more importantly, it told him a lot about her emotional state. She was angry - maybe justifiably, he thought - but not so angry that she was going to take it out on the two sleepers.

Instead, she walked silently into the kitchen, eased her not inconsiderable bulk into a chair, tented her hands, pursed her lips - and stared at him.

Waiting.

"I couldn't just leave them there in the middle of the road!" he protested. "Not in this weather!"

"Gyorr Mooseheart Edrickson, it's one thing to show compassion to another human being - but to expect me to believe that line of crap about finding them in the middle of this storm..." she began.

"It's the truth," he interrupted soberly.

She stared at him, her mouth dropping in astonishment. "You mean these aren't two more of Corrie's reprobate friends?"

"One," he countered, "not all of Cor's friends are scumbags."

"No, just the ones she foists of on you - and me. How many times have I offered to help out her 'friends' with jobs - only to have them take money out of the drawer - or worse, out of the tip jar?" she reminded him.

"Seven," he replied flatly. "Nonetheless, some of her friends are pretty decent."

"Name one."

"Me," he reminded her.

Pat studied her son for a moment - then softened, extending her hand to the young man and drawing him to the chair beside her. "You're right - but the exception doesn't mean the rule isn't true in all other cases."

He grinned. "Legally speaking, yes it does - but we've had that debate before," he reminded her. "But... I really did find them on the bridge at Butterfield and the river. Almost no one showed for Cor's party, and those that did decided to stay the night."

"Except you," she pointed out.

"I felt safer on the roads in the blizzard than closing my eyes in a house with some of them. I know my wallet would be gone by morning - and I'm not sure I'd still have my car," he said.

"Scumbags," she repeated.

"Cor's just a softy," he replied.

"She's going to have to develop some better judgment," Pat recommended. "Not a harder heart - but some better judgment. I don't want my grandchildren being raised by someone who can't tell the difference between someone who needs a hand - and someone who would bite it."

Gy smiled. "I wouldn't worry about that quite yet. I know she was expecting a ring this Christmas - but given the economy, I didn't think that marriage was quite the thing for me. Not yet, at least. Not until I'm sure I could support her - or that she could support me!" he added.

Pat smiled quietly, knowing that his son's girlfriend was in no position to be responsible for supporting a husband should that problem ever arise; with another year of school ahead of her, and the job market for art majors being anything but good, she was probably going to spend at least the better part of her post-graduation time job hunting - and flipping burgers at the local diner.

"What does an art major say to her clients?" she murmured to herself.

" 'Do you want fries with that, sir?' " Gy replied drolly. "I know the joke - not that a builder contractor is in much better shape," he reminded her grimly.

"Hey!" she said sharply. "I know business been slow of late - but things are always slow at the holidays. That was the case last year and the year before - and probably all the years before that. But as long as I have the store and you have the school, we'll be okay."

"As long as I don't mind working 100 hours a week," he grumbled.

"It's good for you," she replied. "A little perseverance and hard work never killed anyone. And it will get better, babe," she added, patting his hand reassuringly. "So... what do you know about these two strays you've picked up?"

"Not much; he said they fell in the river - but considering the cut on his head and all the bruises of his face, I'm betting they had an accident first. Maybe DUI?" he suggested. "A little too much partying, and then they decided to drive home - only they didn't make it, but they didn't want to get arrested, so they thought they'd walk - only they misjudged the direction and ended up in the Fox?"

She nodded at the suggestion. "Reasonable - except I couldn't smell a trace of liquor on her. If she wasn't drinking, wouldn't she have been driving?"

"Maybe she doesn't drive. There wasn't anything like a driver's license in her bag - just a PDA. Which," he added as he saw a light come on in his mother's eyes, "seems to be out of power. I thought it might tell us something about them - other than the fact that her name is Beverly," he added.

"And his is John," she replied, smiling. "She was calling out in her sleep for him - I guess she's not used to sleeping alone," she added with a knowing grin. "Messed up face aside, he's not a bad looking man."

"Well, I do have one more piece of information," Gy volunteered. "I think they're military."

"What?"

"When I was driving, she would sort of come to, and she kept asking John to take her to Sickbay. Not the hospital or a doctor, but Sickbay. I'm betting they're both military, probably Navy."

"Hmpf," Pat muttered to herself thoughtfully.

"And their clothes? Matching black turtlenecks, black pants, black caps - those parkas - and no labels. You did notice that, didn't you? Hardly Abercrombie and Fitch - but they sure could be standard military issue."

Pat frowned her response.

"Can't turn two soldiers out in the middle of a storm, now can we?" he said.

She glared at him. "I wouldn't turn _anyone_ out in the middle of this storm," she said sharply, "but... Your dad was in the Army - and when he died, they did right by us. I've always tried to repay that kindness."

Gy leaned forward, kissed his mother on the cheek, then sat back. "Dad would have liked that. So... what are we going to do with them?"

"For the moment, nothing - except to let Ralph in and ask him to make sure they're okay. And if they're not, we're going to have to figure out how to get them to the hospital," she added. "I don't suppose you saw anything like an insurance card in that bag of hers, did you?"

Gy shook his head. "Nope. Just that PDA. Of course, if they were on some black ops mission, they wouldn't be carrying ID, would they?" he added slyly.

She looked at her son - then burst out laughing. "Dear God, Gy! If they were black ops, I'd hope they could do better than to get trapped in the middle of a snowstorm and fall into a river! It's more likely that they lost everything in whatever accident they had. For all we know, they could have slid off the road and their car is now floating downstream - or sitting on the bottom of the Fox. They'll probably find it when it washes up against one of the dams," she added - then looked up at the sound of the front door opening.

The wind howled as the door opened and a gush of cold air filled the small kitchen. Hurrying to her feet, Pat moved into the adjacent room to greet her visitor.

With open arms, she stepped up to the tall, thin man, enveloping him in her embrace, then stepped back, helping him to remove his heavy and snow-covered coat.

"Thanks for coming out tonight, Ralph," she said. "I'm so sorry to have to impose upon you..."

"Anything for you, my dear," he replied gallantly, taking her hand in his and bending over it.

Gy cleared his throat noisily, and the older man straightened - though not hastily. Instead, he smiled pleasantly at the young man. "I hear you've been fishing in the Fox."

Despite himself, Gy smiled back; he might not care for Ralph's intentions toward his mother - even if she did reciprocate them - but there was no doubt that he was a likeable man. "More like the Fox threw them back out. They looked like a pair of drowned rats when I found them, lying smack dab in the middle of Butterfield and covered in snow. Thank God I got the brakes redone last month," he added.

Ralph nodded then glanced at the stairs. "Are they up there?" he asked.

"I put them to bed in my room," Pat said. "It's the one on the left," she added.

"As if he didn't already know," Gy murmured under his breath.

The heavyset woman smacked his arm with the palm of her hand. "Gy!" she exclaimed, then shook her head and followed the doctor up the stairs.

A half hour later, Ralph Kinthes rose to his feet, feeling every hour of the long day and every degree of the cold night - but more than a little relieved.

Exposure and hypothermia seemed to be the worst of the problems facing his two new patients, and while he would have preferred that they both be admitted to the hospital for observation, he suspected they would both recover quickly, given food, sleep and a steady source of warmth.

The first, he knew, Pat would see to when they woke up; the second had already been addressed, and the third...

"What's that grin about?" she asked as Ralph entered the kitchen.

"Nothing," he replied, then admitted, "I was concerned about their extremities - hands and feet. In these cases, the blood moves away from the extremities to preserve the flow to the internal organs; warm the hands and feet too quickly and you risk cardiac arrest as chilled blood moves to the internal organs - but warm them too slowly and you risk tissue damage from lack of oxygenation. I was about to come down to see if you had some mittens and socks that we could put on them, when she - Beverly, you said?"

Pat nodded.

"Beverly turns over, slides her hands under his shirt, and he wraps his arms around her," he said with a grin. "You'd better hope they're a couple or they're both in for a hell of a surprise in the morning," he laughed.

"A welcome surprise, you'd hope, given what happened to them today," Pat murmured. "How's John's head?"

"The gash is long but shallow; I'd stitch it up, but I don't keep a suture kit with me. Butterfly bandages will have to suffice. Either way, it should heal well enough. I do want to proceed under the premise that he got a concussion from the blow that caused the wound, however - as well as to assume they both swallowed river water. I've administered a broad spectrum antibiotic to them both; I'll keep an eye on them until I'm sure there's no reaction - if you don't mind, Pat," he added.

"I don't mind - but there's no reason for you to stay," she replied. "I've sat up with Gy more than a few nights when he was sick; I can sit up with those two just as well."

"But don't you have to get ready for Sunday's brunch?" Ralph asked plaintively. "You're not going to cancel it just because of the storm, are you?"

She laughed heartily. "I haven't canceled my New Year's Day brunch in fifteen years, Ralph; I'm not about to start now. I'm more than a little happy that I pushed it back to Sunday, though, even if it is January 2! By the time the storms over and everyone digs out, they're going to appreciate a big, day-long feast!"

"In that case, I'm going home and catch a few hours sleep," he said. "If you need help tomorrow with getting ready for the party, let me know - and call me if either of your patients seems to be in trouble. If we have to, I'll draft one of the city snowplows to haul them over to Delnor." He leaned close to Pat, and, ignoring Gy's disapproving look, kissed her cheek. "You owe me one," he murmured quietly.

Laughing, she patted his face, then rose and escorted him to the door. When she returned a few moment later, her son had an equally disparaging look for her.

"You don't owe him anything, Ma," he said pointedly.

"Gy," she said sternly, "you're behaving like you did when you were three. Like it or not, there are always going to be other people - male and female - in my life, and some of those people might have romance on their minds. _I_ might have romance on my mind," she added. "I might not approve of Corrie, but I don't disapprove of your having girlfriends in general, do I?"

"No," he conceded, "but Ralph's different!"

"Because Ralph might be serious," she pointed out. "He might want more than just a casual relationship - is that it?"

Gy fell silent, then grudgingly nodded.

Pat stepped close to her son and reached up to caress his face. "Baby, you'll always be the first love in my life. You are my light. No one can ever take your place in my heart. Not even your father. Certainly not Ralph. And, if it will make you feel better, I have no intention of getting serious with him - or anyone else - at least not now. Maybe someday in the future. For now, I'll settle for someone to warm my bed on occasion..."

"Mom!" he cried out in horror.

She laughed. "You are so easy to tease, Gyorr! Now, go to bed, and get some sleep. You're going to have to help me cook tomorrow - and we're going to have to shovel out the driveway, so there's a long day's work ahead of us both."

"If the snow stops falling," he reminded her.

"As though a mere blizzard is going to keep people from showing up on Sunday morning," she replied.

"Good point."

He kissed her cheek, hugged her, then headed toward the stairs.

She watched him for a moment, then followed, turning off the kitchen lights as she did so.

Entering her bedroom, she found John and Beverly as Ralph had described them, wrapped in one another's arm - and shivering. Quietly, she retrieved a think quilt from the hope chest at the foot of the bed, spread it out over the two, then with a practiced hand, touched their foreheads, feeling for a fever.

"So far, so good," she murmured softly.

Taking a second quilt from the chest, she settled into the easy chair opposite the bed, pulled the cover over herself, and watched her charges.

After a time, their shivering eased, and they both drifted further into a deep and seemingly dreamless sleep.

In time, she followed them.


	6. Chapter 6

January 1 - pt 3

The bed was luxurious: soft satin sheets and thick down comforters, deep pillows that cradled his head - and beside him the glorious warmth of his lover.

Without opening his eyes, he listened to the sound of the wind howling beyond the vast windows that covered the side of their private chalet, remembering how they had watched the snow had been tossed about, twirling and dancing in chaotic frenzy as the fierce winter winds whipped around their isolated house - and how they had savored their own, private warmth beneath those comforters that they tossed about in a frenzy of their own.

It had been... glorious, he thought indulgently, wondering if he would every get up from this bed again. Even in this dreamy state, he could envision staying within this bed, with Beverly, forever more.

Almost forever more, he added as wakefulness drew closer; even romance had to abide by the more fundamental calls of nature.

He started to sit up, but every muscle in his body screamed its protest; he gasped, allowing himself to fall back against the pillow in shocked surprise at the pain that had so suddenly filled his body.

"Beverly," he managed, his voice hoarse, his throat aching - but when she didn't respond, he called out again, this time in worry, as he fought his protesting muscles to force himself upright. "Beverly!"

A gentle but firm hand pushed him back. "Don't you worry, John," a woman's voice said, her words only vaguely understandable through her thick accent. "Beverly's downstairs. She said to let you sleep."

He forced his eyes open to stare confusedly at the older woman who appeared before him, her image distorted by the low light in the room. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he said, "Who... Where...?"

Pat smiled at his confusion. "You don't remember me, I see. Well, you were a bit worn out when we met last night. I'm Pat - Patricia - Edrickson. My son Gy found you and Beverly on Butterfield Road last night, almost lost in a snow drift, and brought you home."

He thought for a few moments, trying to force his brain to recall the real events of the previous night - then fell back into the pillows as they surged into his memory. "The accident," he murmured.

"I don't know about any accident - but Gy says you told him that you and Beverly fell in the river," she said. "Considering the two of you came here looking like a pairs of drowned rats, I could believe that. We wanted to get you two to the hospital, but the storm made that impossible. Fortunately my neighbor is a doctor, and he came over to check on you both. In fact he's downstairs right now, talking with Beverly…"

"Beverly," he interrupted. "Is Beverly all right?"

"She's fine. Oh, sore and tired and a little the worse for wear - as you probably are," she added a moment later. "But Dr. Kinthes says you're both doing fine, short of some rest and warmth. Speaking of warmth, I was just about to dish up some soup for our lunch. Do you feel up to joining us?"

Picard nodded, pushed himself upright, grimacing against the pain that lanced through his body.

"Ralph said you're going to be stiff and sore for a few days," she said. "Can I give you a hand?"

"No," he demurred. "Thank you… Uh, Pat… It is Pat, yes?" he asked tentatively.

"Patricia - but everyone calls me Pat. What is it, John?"

He reddened in embarrassment. "I, uh, need to use the uh..."

She grinned. "Oh I'm sorry! Of course you do! The bathroom's right through that door," she said, pointing. "Take your time. I'll get you a robe and slippers and leave them on the bed - you just come down when you're ready. We'll be in the kitchen," she added.

He made his way to the bathroom with exaggerated caution, his every muscle protesting at being asked to work - but even as he moved, they began to loosen; by the time his finished his ablutions, he was far from moving easily or comfortably - but at least the pain had subsided to a tolerable, dull ache.

Finding the oversized robe and slippers, he pulled the on and left the bedroom. Following the soft noise from the lower floor, he carefully made his way down the stairs to join the others.

Seated at a small round wooden table in the kitchen were Pat, a young man he vaguely recognized, an older, thin-faced man he didn't know - and Beverly. Even with her back to him, he knew he would know those red tresses anywhere - and a small swell of relief washed over him at realizing that she was indeed, safe and well.

Seeing the newcomer enter the room, the thin-faced man smiled. "Well, well, you're finally back among the living," he said softly.

Beverly spun quickly to face her companion, moving as if to stand only to gasp as her muscles protested the sudden movement. Reaching to her, the thin man cautioned, "Careful now; shivering is hard work - and you've done a lot of that over the last few hours. Go slow - and that goes for you too, John," he added, giving the man a cautioning look.

Picard opened his mouth to correct the man, but Beverly, having finally managed to make it to her feet, reached to embrace him, silencing him quickly. "John," she said, "I was worried about you!" She moved closer to him, pressing her lips closer to his ear. "Go along with this for now. We'll talk later," she added softly.

Abandoning her seat, Pat gestured for Picard to take her place. His typical Gallic gallantry was quickly overcome by the needs of his aching feet and legs, and he gratefully accepted the offer - as he accepted a steaming mug a few moments later. He raised it to his lips out of reflex - then stopped and looked at his benefactress in genuine appreciation.

Pat smiled. "Beverly said you liked Earl Grey tea - and as I happen to run a coffeehouse in Batavia, I happened to have it on hand." She watched as Picard sniffed the fragrant steam, then smiled as he took a deep sip, his appreciation of the brew reflected on his face, the thin lines of worry easing as he swallowed the tea.

"Excellent," he said. "The best I've had in... quite some time," he decided.

"Mom doesn't give herself enough credit," the young man informed him. "The Quarry in the best coffeehouse in the Fox Valley."

"Here, here," the thin-faced man agreed, raising his cup in salute to the older woman.

"I don't know about the tea, but the coffee is wonderful," Beverly agreed. "Thank you," she added pointedly. "And thank you," she repeated, turning to the young man. "I think if you hadn't turned up when you did, we would not be here today."

To Picard's surprise, the young man blushed. "Hey, you do what you can," he said quietly.

"I believe we met last night," Picard said, extending a hand toward the man. "It was Gy, I believe?"

"Gy Edrickson. And Beverly says you're John."

Picard glanced quickly at Beverly who gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head.

"Picard," Picard added. "John Picard. Gy. That's a French name, isn't it? Short for Guillaume?"

"No, it's just short," Gy answered to his mother's amusement.

"Gy's none too fond of his name," she explained. "His father always wanted a son named Gyorr Mooseheart - so when Gy was born, I named him as his father would have wanted."

"He was joking, Mom," Gy protested.

"Well, he wasn't around to say anything, so we'll never know, now will we?" she replied.

"Your husband...?" Beverly asked.

Pat smiled, a bit sadly. "Christopher died a few months after we married - he was on maneuvers overseas and there was an accident. He never even knew I was pregnant, let alone saw Gy. But I've tried to bring Gy up the way his father would have wanted - including giving him the name his father wanted him to have," she added pointedly, glaring at her son - then looked back at her guests. "But the Army did right by the two of us - and we've always tried to repay the favor to the folks in service. And you two are in the service, aren't you?" she added, looking pointedly at the two newcomers.

Jean-Luc turned his eyes to his companion who looked back with equal uncertainty.

Before either could respond, Gy jumped up gleefully. "I told you! They're black ops! Hey, I so totally understand," he told the two knowingly. "You can't acknowledge what you are or what you do! Ma, remember Sig? Dad's friend? He never was allowed to tell us why he could speak Russian or what he did in the Army - or where? Like that wasn't announcing that he was doing something covert with the Russians!" he chortled.

"Gy," Pat interrupted, "they're not black ops."

"Right! But something like that!" he said. "That's why that you both have those accents!" he added.

"Gy, calm down. They have accents because they're not from around here. John's from England, I think," Pat guessed.

"France, actually - but my English tutor was from England, so when I learned to speak English, I learned to do so correctly," Picard replied.

"A little French and a little English," Pat concluded, then looked at Beverly. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were from the West Coast. Los Angeles?" she guessed.

"Not quite - though I did a few years of my studies in San Francisco as well as a year there in administration," she confirmed. "You're quite good with identifying accents," she continued, smiling up at Pat.

"I'm equally good with obfuscations," she answered. "But better with soup. I've got a pot of onion soup ready. Any takers?"

Without waiting for replies, she turned to the stove; Gy moved to the cabinets that lined the kitchen walls and began to remove soup plates and small saucers, lining them up for his mother, then presenting them to those seated at the table, before returning to take a loaf of bread from the oven and began to slice it.

Turning to look at the two, the thin-faced man smiled at Jean-Luc. "I think introductions got lost somewhere in that last conversation," he said. "I'm Ralph Kinthes, Pat's neighbor and personal on-call physician," he said with a smile. He extended a hand to Picard - but the grip that met the Starfleet captain's was surprisingly gentle.

Kinthes grinned at the reaction. "Your hands are going to be more than a little sore for a day or so - so go gently on the hand shaking tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" he replied.

"Pat's traditional New Year's Day brunch - providentially delayed for one day this year. Come hell or waters high - or even another foot of snow - this place will be packed with fifty to a hundred of her friends, employees, customer, neighbors - you name it, people will be in and out all day long visiting, celebrating the new year, watching the game..."

"Game?"

"Bears versus Packers!" he replied brightly - then, at Picard's bewildered look, expanded, "Chicago Bears versus the Green Bay Packers? Football game?"

"Ah. The Bears," Picard said understandingly, though judging from the expression on Kinthes' face, it was evident he had no idea about the sports rivalry - or about the team.

"Yes, those Bears," Kinthes chuckled. "You might want to brush up on the topic before the party," he advised. "But whatever you do, just make sure you don't tell anyone you're a Packers fan. Pat doesn't need another riot in her living room. That is, if you're staying for the brunch," he added then looked at Pat who was bringing the last of the soup plates to the table. "They are staying, aren't they?"

"It's up to them, Ralph," she said, then looked pointedly at the two. "But I think the question might not be one of 'Are you staying?' but rather one of 'Do you have a place to go?' I mean... since you both woke up, neither of you asked about the condition of your car, or asked to contact anyone who might be waiting for you - and if I just got fished out of a river in the middle of a blizzard, I think I'd be calling my insurance company, calling home - whatever. You two haven't said Jack Shit about anything. I wanted to call your friends – but neither of you are carrying any ID. I'm sorry about snooping through your bag, Beverly, but if there was someone expecting you, I wanted to let them know. But there was nothing there – nothing," she said firmly.

"I don't know how you got here or what happened - but I think you're both in trouble. Now, I'm not asking for information I shouldn't know, but... If there's any chance you're going to bring trouble on me, my son or my friends, I'll feed you, pack you a lunch, dry your clothes - and send you on your way, no harm, no foul. If not, you're welcome to stay until we can get your situation figured out and get you back on your feet. Chris would have wanted it that way - and so do I. So eat your soup, and then we'll leave you two to talk it over in peace."

An awkward silence fell upon the five who turned, uncertainly to their soup. "So..." Gy said after a few strained moments, "What about this weather, eh? Think it's all global warming?"

"Oh, we've had storms like this before. Remember '77, Ralph?" Pat replied.

" '77 and '78 - two years in a row. Montego's wife was eight months pregnant with their first baby when he was sent to a convention in Vegas - and she went into labor back here. He had to talk her through it by telephone while he waited for the planes to start flying again. By the time he arrived she been in labor for almost thirty-six hours..."

_Telephones? Planes?_ Picard thought to himself, even as Beverly exclaimed, "Thirty-six hours? That's outrageous!"

"Tell me about it," Kinthes agreed. "I don't hold with the automatic deferral to C-sections at the first sign of difficulty - but thirty-six hours is too far the other way in my opinion. Anyway, by the time he got to the hospital, Rollo had been born, she was out of surgery - and Montego was in the dog house for months!"

_C-section? _Picard thought, glancing at Beverly. He had heard the term before – but in historical texts.What the devil was going on here?

Surreptitiously, he slipped a hand beneath the table and placed it cautiously on Beverly's leg.

She looked at him, understanding, but her eyes flashing a warning to keep his questions to himself even as the two men continued their discussion.

A sickening feeling suddenly overcame Picard as the enormity of the situation struck him: something was seriously - seriously! - wrong here.

"John?" Pat said suddenly. "Are you all right? You're pale..."

"I think maybe we should get him back to bed," Beverly said hastily, rising to take one of Picard's arms in hers. "That blow to the head..."

"More likely the river water," Ralph suggested, taking his other arm.

"I'm fine," Picard protested - then fell silent at Beverly gave him a cautioning look; silent, he let the two escort him from the table to the upstairs bedroom.

He kept his silence for several minutes as the two settled him into the bed, then watched as Beverly closed the door behind the departing physician.

She quickly moved to the bed, taking a place close to him, her voice low and worried.

"What the hell is this place, Beverly?" Picard asked in a hushed tone.

"What it is, I don't know - what I do know however, is _when_ it is," she said.

"What?"

"Jean-Luc, that vortex we entered? I think that somehow, between the vortex, your attempts to free us, and the slingshot maneuver, we've moved in time," she informed him dryly.

"Moved in time," he echoed. "To where... or rather, to when?"

"The where is where we thought we were - Earth. But Jean-Luc, according to our hosts, it's January 1... 2011."


	7. Chapter 7

January 1 - pt 4

"2011," Picard echoed dully. "Beverly…"

"I'm just telling you what they were saying," she countered.

"Have you considered they might be lying, that this might be… I don't know - an elaborate hologram set up to extract information from you or me?" he suggested.

She gave him a scornful look. "Of course I have! After everything that you, and Will, and Geordi have gone through over the years, it was one of the first possibilities that crossed my mind! But if it's a deception, it's flawless. The language, the accent, the pronunciations…"

"The frequent references to historical terms that clearly point out this is a different time?" he replied.

"Which we do as well in our normal conversations," she answered. "But there are other things as well," Beverly continued.

"Such as…"

"Our clothes. Have you ever felt fabric like this before?" she asked, fingering the material of her robe.

"A replicator…" he began.

"All right, a replicator could make any fabric – but a replicator doesn't create labels for the clothes. Apparently, this robe was made in 'Half Moon Bay' – at least that's what printed on the label - it's a '14' – whatever that means – and it's made from 100% acrylic fibers - whatever they are. And it has washing instructions," she added.

"So our captors paid attention to details…"

"Jean-Luc, it's a detail we wouldn't even think about!" Beverly replied. "Labels? Washing instructions?"

He hesitated, knowing she was right – but accepting her conjecture was simply… unbelievable.

We cannot be in the year 2011, he thought defiantly – then shivered as a blast of cold wind rattled the window, sending a faint draft through the room.

Rising from the bed, he moved to the glass pane, pulling back the thick curtains to stare at the howling storm beyond.

He felt her move to take a place next to him. "It explains everything – the lack of response to our emergency beacon, the tricorder readings, the so-called failure of the weather grid… Jean-Luc, we've traveled back in time."

He stared out the window a moment longer, then turned to face her. "For the lack of a better explanation, I'll accept your hypothesis – for now."

Beverly smiled. "For now," she agreed. "So…How do we get home?"

"I don't know, Beverly," he said quietly. "But as much as I hate to admit it, that is not our most pressing issue. How we are going to survive here until we can find a way back has to be our first concern."

She gave him a puzzled look. "Survive?"

"Do you remember our trip to San Francisco – to rescue Data? We needed to find shelter food – money? If I remember my history – and I'll admit that American history was never my forte – we're going to need money – and more."

"Identification," Beverly murmured.

Picard nodded, remembering their benefactress's words. "The government had a huge presence in the daily lives of the people in this time – you needed government issued identification to work, to drive vehicles…"

Despite the situation, Beverly laughed. "Considering how we got here, maybe I should be the one to drive, Jean-Luc!" she said.

He looked at her then gave a slow shake of his head. "My piloting skills are not the reason we entered the temporal vortex!" he snapped. "I don't think you're treating this situation with the seriousness that it is due," he reminded her sternly.

She grew instantly sober. "On the contrary – I've been considering nothing else for the last two hours while you were up here sleeping!" she retorted – then bit her lip. "Damn it Jean-Luc, I _know_ the situation we're in! We're not trapped on a ship, we're not marooned on a desert world, we're not being held as prisoners on Kes/Prytt! We're someplace and some _time_ where no one is going to come to rescue us – and I don't know if there is a way for us to rescue ourselves! So yes, damn it, I am treating this situation as seriously as I can!" she snapped back – then turned away hastily.

Shocked, stunned by her outburst, he stared at her back – then saw her shoulders shudder faintly.

"Beverly," he said softly, stepping close to her – and heard her faint gasp of air.

She was crying, he realized. Beverly… crying.

Uncertainly, he reached for her shoulder, turning her to face him then pulling her to him.

She buried her head against his shoulder – but, to his relief, she didn't break down. Instead, her arms wrapped around him as she drew a deep breath, steadied herself – then pulled back, straightening herself – but not freeing herself from his embrace entirely.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, deigning not to release her quite yet.

She nodded, wiping a tear from her cheek. "I'm sorry…"

"Don't be," he interrupted. "I might be in need of a shoulder to dry on before this adventure is through," he reminded her.

She gave a faint laugh, then pulled free, straightened the robe she was wearing, running her fingers through her hair to regain her composure – then faced him. "So what do we do, Captain?" she asked.

"First, we have to hope that Will has realized what happened to us and is doing what he can from his side to find us. However, that temporal vortex appeared only when we were on the far side of the sun – and unless he recreates the circumstances leading up to the opening of the vortex, he may not put it together. I hoping that if they trace or flight plan that Data will discover some trace particles – but that close to the sun, I wouldn't count on that. So it is incumbent upon us to find a way to get a message to them.

"As far as remaining here, assuming this is twenty-first century Earth, we need to drop our titles. You've already let Pat know you're a doctor, so we can't change that, but I'm going to have to be just 'John'…" He paused and looked at her curiously. "John?"

Beverly reddened. "Apparently I talk in my sleep – but not very clearly," she explained.

"You could have corrected them," he suggested.

"I wasn't entirely sure where we were – and I wasn't about to reveal our real identities until I knew more. By the time I realized the situation, they were calling you John – and changing that now might require more explaining," she said.

Picard sighed. He had hated being called Johnny when he was at the Academy, but had tolerated it out of a sense of familiarity and camaraderie – but Beverly was right; there was no easy way to explain that it wasn't his correct name after having told Pat that it was John.

"Well, while I must remain John, it seems, you have to remain as Dr. Crusher, since they know you're a physician. The problem with that is that I suspect you can't practice without some sort of documentation – but I don't think they'll accept a degree from four hundred years in the future," he reminded her.

"We could use the shuttles replicators to create the proper documents," Beverly suggested.

"Agreed. We're going to have to do some research first, however, to determine what those documents should be," he pointed out.

"We're also going to have to determine if the shuttle has enough power to run the replicators," she pointed out. "If I remember _our_ history, time travel by use of the slingshot effect tends to drain power systems. We may need to re-energize the shuttles systems as well – and obtaining those supplies will probably require funds."

"So we need jobs," he sighed. "Except you can't work as a physician – and I suspect that starship captains are not in great demand in the year 2011."

The two looked at each other in worry. "So what do we do?" Beverly asked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "And there's on other problem?"

"And that is…?"

"We have to find the shuttle," he reminded her. "Our path was fairly clear until we reached the river – but I don't know how far downstream we traveled – or if we ended on the same side of the river as we started. I'm hoping that the beacon is still functioning and that we can locate it using the tricorder – but considering the drain on our power systems, that may be an unrealistic hope. It may take us some time to find the shuttle. At least it will give us some time to research the documents we need," he added.

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation; glancing warningly at Beverly, Picard started to call out, "Come…" only to hastily change it to, "Yes?"

Opening the door slowly, Pat stuck her head in, smiling – then frowned. "You're supposed to be in bed," she informed Picard.

"I'm fine," he protested.

"Just a touch of disorientation," Beverly added. "The accident did throw us both around a bit," she added, "but he's all right now."

Pat smiled. "Yes. The accident," she agreed with a condescending smile. "Even though neither of you have a driver's license."

"Our personal effects must have been swept away in the river," Picard suggested.

"Of course they were," she agreed, then entered the room fully. Gesturing to the two to seat themselves on the bed, she took a place at the chair and faced the two.

"This is how it is, John, Beverly," she informed them. "As I said, I don't know you're story – and I don't need to know it. But I do know you're both in a bad place at this moment. For whatever reason, you can't turn to friends, family or anyone else for help. What I said stands: if you're situation is going to cause me or mine any problems, then I want you to leave. I'll give you clothes, food and a couple of bucks – but you leave as soon as the storm breaks." She looked at them both, waiting.

Picard looked at Beverly – then turned back to Pat. "We're not a threat to you or your family, ma'am," he said. "We're not criminals, and to the best of our knowledge, no one is trying to find us." At least no one from this time, he added.

"I guess I'll have to believe you," she said, not entirely convinced. "All right – for tonight, you can both stay here – but I'm moving you both to the basement. Nothing personal, but I need to get up early, and I don't want to have to tiptoe past you two just to get ready in the morning.

Appalled that they had put their host out, Beverly began to apologize – but Pat raised her hand. "I wouldn't have put you here if it was a problem, Beverly – but now that I know you're both on the mend, I'm taking my room back. Not to worry – the basement is quite nice," she added. "Gy set it up for a friend who stayed with us last year – there's a bed and a private bathroom… I assume you're married," she added looking at the two questioningly.

Picard shook his head. "No," he said emphatically. "Just friends."

Despite his response, Pat chuckled. "Oh, I doubt _that_," she said, leaving Picard to give Beverly a puzzled look - and was rewarded with a rare blush from the redhead.

_What did I miss?_ he wondered to himself, vowing to ask her later.

Ignore the man's discomfort, Pat continued, "Well, whatever you are, there's only one bed in the basement, but there is a couch down there as well; I'll leave it to you to determine your sleeping arrangements - but I'll let you know that the bed is far more comfortable than that old sofa. Now, as you might have figured out, tomorrow's my holiday party; as far as my guests are concerned, you're John and Beverly, old friends of my husband's who got stuck at the airport in the storm. Since it would take the airlines a few days – at least – to get everyone to where they were scheduled, no one would be surprised if you stayed on a few days. That should buy you some time to decide what you want to do.

"In the meantime, you're going to have to pitch in," she continued. "Do either of you cook?" she added, hope tingeing her voice.

"I can find my way around a kitchen," Beverly said.

"Good! And you, John?"

Picard hesitated – and Pat laughed. "I thought the French knew all about cooking," she chuckled.

"My mother taught me the basics," he defended himself, "but I wouldn't call it haute cuisine."

"Well," she chuckled, "then let's use your military training to its best effects: you can clean this room, then set up the basement. Gy'll show you where the linens and towels are - and when you're done, you can help with setting the tables. But no dawdling - there's work to be done!"

Hours later, Picard hissed, trying valiantly to keep from making any sounds as he struggled to make himself comfortable in his - their! - new bed, but it was proving to be a futile effort.

"Jean-Luc," Beverly murmured worriedly, her voice welcome in the dark of the night, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," he started, then admitted, "No. Everything hurts. I never thought that cleaning would be so exhausting!"

She gave a soft laugh.

"Don't laugh, Beverly - I heard you groaning when you were peeling those potatoes," he reminded her, turning to face her in the dark.

Despite his accusation, she only laughed again. "I wasn't laughing at you - or at me," she added, "just at the situation. It's not that cleaning - or cooking - at least not what we did, is so tiring, but that we were shivering so hard yesterday that we really overtaxed our muscles. Now everything we do hurts. If we were back on the Enterprise, I would have treated our injuries, given us both a long-lasting analgesic, done some supplementation of our diets to offset the muscles strain - and by now, the accident and the river would be fading memories, not livid bruises. How's your head?" she added in concern, her hand brushing against his face.

"Sore," he admitted, "although I think bandages itch more than the wound hurts."

"Well, at least it will provide you with a story to tell tomorrow when Pat's guests arrive," she reminded him. "I'll have to settle for saying things like," she hesitated for a moment, raising her voice slightly to match their hostess' tone, then said, "How 'bout them Bears?"

Picard raised a brow. "Not to be impolitic, but wouldn't it be, 'How about those Bears'?" he asked.

"Apparently not. Pat said that is the correct way to say it - some local idiom. I gather there's another team, the Cubs, and you have to say the same thing about them."

"The Cubs? A children's team?" he mused. If the Bears were an adult sports team, then the Cubs must be the youth organization, he decided.

"I presume so, though I didn't ask," she answered.

He considered for a moment, then ventured, "How 'bout them Cubs?"

Beverly burst out laughing.

"What?" he asked, stricken by her laughter.

She hesitated, unable stop laughing, then finally planted a hand in the middle of his chest.

In the close confines of the bed, he could feel her shaking her head.

"It's not you, Jean-Luc. I mean... It's supposed to sound casual - and you make it sound..."

"Ridiculous?"

"Elegant."

Startled, he pulled back, trying to see her in the dark of their room. "Beverly?"

"You have a lovely voice, you know," she reminded him, her own tone softening as she spoke.

He fell silent, surprised, then managed an uncertain, "Thank you."

"Well you do," she said, her voice growing soft as she lay beside him in the dark. "Sometimes, when I in my quarters on the Enterprise, I would look forward to you making shipwide announcements - and especially to when you would call me," she added.

He looked at her in surprise - and pleasure - though in the dark of the room she could see nothing of his expressions. "I must admit that I rather enjoyed it when you would answer."

"Oh?" she said teasingly.

"Oh," he replied. "If all I had wanted was to relay a message, I could have just sent one via the computer."

Beverly lay in silence for a moment, until Jean-Luc thought she might have fallen asleep. He was just starting to lay back when she spoke again.

"Do you remember the messages you sent me after Jack died?" she asked.

He nodded, still loathing his cowardice at not going to see her more often in the years after Jack's death - but every time he had seen her, he found himself wondering, once again, about his own culpability in Jack's death. Did I want her so much that I would have sent Jack into such a dangerous situation knowing he could die? he wondered once more.

Unaware of the personal demons haunting his thoughts, Beverly continued. "There were nights when I would play those messages, over and over, just listening to your voice. Sometimes it was the only anchor I had, the only thing that kept me connected to the better times that we had, the only thing that kept me sane."

"Better times...?" he began incredulously. "Beverly, I killed Jack!" he protested, denying himself the solace he had just granted his conscience. "How could you not hate me, hate my voice, the one that doomed your husband?"

She raised herself up on one arm, the other hand reaching for his face. "You didn't kill him, Jean-Luc. You sent him out to do his duty - and he died. It was your responsibility, yes - but not your fault."

"But..."

"But you were in love with me, even then," she said. "Yes?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes," he said roughly.

"So much that you would have done almost anything to be with me? So much that you would have put me and my child through years of grief and loneliness and sorrow - just so you could be with me? Did you love me so much that you would put me through hell?" she asked softly.

"No!" he insisted. "Never!"

"Then you didn't kill Jack," she said. "Not intentionally. Not deliberately. He died under your command - but not because you were trying to get rid of him; not because you wanted me for yourself," she assured him. "You loved me enough to want me to be happy, more than you wanted to make yourself happy. If your happiness had been more important, you would have said something before Jack and I got married. But you didn't. You held your tongue, and you suffered in silence. I know that; I think that even then, I knew that - and I certainly know it now," she added.

Startled, he barely felt it as her arm lowered, wrapping over his waist as she lay down, her head resting against his chest as he arm reflexively moved to hold her to him.

They lay in silence for a while, Beverly's words roiling through Jean-Luc's mind until he felt a faint vibration against his chest.

Beverly was laughing.

"What?"

"Do you remember Pat's comment? After you said we were 'just friends'?" she asked.

"Yes," he agreed, remembering how Beverly had blushed at the woman's response.

"I didn't want to say anything, but... when I woke up this morning, I found we were... cuddling," she said.

"Cuddling?"

He could feel the blush warming her face once again. "Maybe a little more. I... I had my hands under your shirt. Pat must have seen it: she was in the room with us."

He considered that for a moment. "You were cold."

"And you had your arms around me."

_Oh, no, _he thought, horrified at his unconscious behavior. "We were both cold," he tried.

"Of course," she agreed. "And now?"

For the first time, Picard realized that he had enveloped the woman he loved in his arms. He stiffened, ready to apologize, ready to move himself to a respectable distance - or even the couch on the far side of the room rather than offend her with his 'uncaptainly' behavior - then stopped.

With a confidence he didn't entirely feel, he said, "We're both still cold."

"Ah. I knew there was a good reason," she replied dryly - then nestled against him a little more tightly.

He started slightly at the familiarity, then relaxed, pulled the thick comforter over them both, and felt himself relax, his aches and pains fading in the glow of her warmth.

"Jean-Luc?" she whispered a few moments later.

"Yes?"

"Do you really think were we going to get back home?" she asked softly.

"Of course we will," he assured her. "Don't give up so easily."

"I'm not giving up. It's just... Will and Data are good at searching for lost ships - but as you said, even if they find some sort of temporal residue, they might not think to look for us four hundred years in the past," she reminded him.

"They'll find us," he repeated.

"Is that the captain speaking - or Jean-Luc?" she asked.

He was tempted to reply that they were on and the same - but he knew that, at least as far as Beverly was concerned, that wasn't the truth.

"The captain," he replied.

"Is Jean-Luc as confident?" she asked.

"No," he answered. "But I'm not going to give up. There has to be some way to let Will - or someone from our time - know where we are. Until then, though, we're going to have to figure out how to survive in this world."

She nodded, then whispered, very softly, "I'm scared."

"So am I," he admitted. "But we're not going to find a way home when we're both exhausted. Let's get some sleep," he told her.

Adjusting the blankets around them both, he settled back, ordering his body to relax, then tightened his arm around her.

Without thinking, he placed a kiss on the top of her head then whispered, "Good night."


	8. Chapter 8

January 2

Gy slowed his pace, easing his way to a halt, then shifted the throttle back on the snowblower. The roar of the mechanism died back as it idled, purring softly as Gy pulled his ski cap off, wiping the sweat from his brow and venting a little of his body heat into the chill of the bright and sunny morning.

Almost done, he thought to himself; time for a break – for both of us, he added, listening to the steady scrape of the metal shovel against the concrete of the front walk.

"John!" he called out as he turned off the snowblower's engine.

Seeming not to hear him, Picard continued his efforts, steadily scraping up the heavy snow and piling on either side of the walkway.

"John!" he repeated, "Let's take a break!"

This time the words seemed to reach the taller man; with a star, he looked to Gy then nodded.

Trotting back to the front of the house, Gy was taken aback by the amount of work that his new companion had completed; rather than just cutting a narrow path one shovel's width through the snow, John had completely cleared the path from edge to edge, piling the snow back in a tapered heap so that it wouldn't fall back on the pathway or on the guests as they entered the house – and creating an effective windbreak as he did so. It bespoke a certain level of military attentiveness, Gy thought – and a surprising degree of fitness. Despite more than an hour of work, John didn't seem to be winded in the least.

And I thought I was in shape, he thought with a sigh.

"Let's take five, John," he said.

"Five?" Picard echoed. "Five what?"

"Five minutes," Gy said with a smile, bemused and curious at the man's lack of understanding. He clearly wasn't American – even if the accent hadn't been so obvious, the man had said himself that he was from France – but 'take five' was hardly a modern phrase.

If he'd been in the military any reasonable amount of time, he'd know that – wouldn't he?

Providing he was with the _American_ military, Gy added to himself.

So maybe he wasn't, he mused. Not that he suspected the man was a foreign terrorist – but maybe he was foreign military on loan to the American government, either from France – or maybe England. Maybe a real-life James Bond! Gy thought gleefully.

Who brought his own Moneypenny with him, didn't have a weapon or a cool car – and apparently got lost to the point of falling in the river, he added with a disheartened sigh. Admittedly, Beverly was hotter than Lois Maxwell was, but even so…

Okay, so maybe he wasn't a spy – but he still could be on loan – some sort of liaison in the diplomatic core…

So why wasn't he trying to get in touch with his embassy? Gy mused.

As he watched, Picard peeled his own cap from his head, revealing the long gash in the front of his forehead.

"That must sting like a mother," Gy commiserated.

"Pardon?" Picard replied in surprise.

"Your cut. Between the sweat and that cap, it must sting like a motherfucker," Gy repeated.

Picard tried hard not to wince at the vulgarity. "Umm… Not really. It's more annoying than painful," he added when Gy seemed unsatisfied by his answer.

"I'll bet," Gy added.

The two men looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, then Gy said, "You're doing a good job out here. Ma's going to be happy – almost as happy as when she saw her room last night. You did a bang-up job cleaning up there," he added. "All that military training, I presume," he added.

Come on, John, he thought; take the bait.

Picard, however, declined to bite. "I wanted to thank her – and you – for what you've done. A little cleaning – or shoveling - hardly seems fair recompense for saving our lives," he reminded Gy.

"That wasn't a 'little' cleaning; you did everything short of shampooing the carpet!" Gy chuckled.

For a moment, Picard grew concerned, worried that he might have offended the woman by insinuating that she hadn't adequately cleaned the room - which she hadn't, he added – but given the equipment and tools available, he could easily see why cleaning something to the standards to which he had become accustomed was almost impossible in this day and age.

Seeing the worry on the man's face, Gy instantly relented. "Hey, don't sweat it! Ma was delighted. Keep it up and she won't let you leave!" he added – which only brought a new flash of concern to Picard's face.

"Dude… John," Gy quietly amended, "we'll figure something out. I don't know where you're supposed to be or why you can't get there – but we'll figure something out. Okay?" he added gently.

"Your kindness is appreciated, Gy – but Beverly and I can't impose upon you," Picard demurred.

"Yeah, right – like you've got some place to go," he reminded Picard. "Look. Let's just get through this shindig of Ma's for now; we'll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow. And if you two decide it's time to head out, then so be it – but don't let your pride get in the way of your brains, John. It's cold, there doesn't seem to be anyone else you two can turn to - and it's not like Batavia's got a lot of housing for the homeless."

"Batavia?" Picard echoed.

"Batavia. Batavia, Illinois. That's where you are, you know: Batavia, Illinois. City of Energy," he added.

Picard thought for a moment, trying to remember where Illinois was – then gave Gy a hopeful look. "Batavia... That's where the Fermi accelerator was… _is_, isn't it?" he amended hastily.

A wash of relief came over Gy; wherever John Picard was from, it couldn't be that far away. Fermi Lab wasn't a secret – but outside of nuclear physicists and a handful of geeks, only the locals seemed to be aware of the presence of renowned laboratory – and John didn't strike him as a geek. A scientist, maybe? "Fermi Lab," he agreed, then jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "About two miles thataway. I take it you've heard of it then?" he added hopefully.

"Indeed," Picard answered, silently adding that he had seen the site in his course in the history of warp physics – not that he could have told Gy that, he added silently. "That is, I've heard of the bison," Picard replied, recalling a picture from one of the texts.

Gy nodded in understanding – and in disappointment. Everyone knew about the buffalo, he reminded himself, even if they didn't know about the lab itself. Hell, you could see them from the roads some days. So much for learning anything that way, he sighed. "How's that for a laugh – nuclear physics and herd of buffalo in the same place."

"It's an interesting juxtaposition," Picard replied.

"That it is," Gy echoed. "Anyway John, you are in Batavia, Illinois, home of Fermi Lab, the buffalo - and the Batavia Bulldogs." Gy thrust a first upright into the air, then pulled it down, jerking his arm into his body - and watching for a reaction.

You definitely have no idea where you are, John, he decided - but since you don't know that, that means that this wasn't your destination, and you were just passing through – but to where? he wondered - and why won't, or can't, you tell us?

The two men fell back into an awkward silence, then Picard reached for his shovel once more. "I should finish this," he murmured, only to have Gy take the shovel from him.

"Don't worry about it, John," he said. "I can take it from here. Why don't you head in, take a shower and get dressed for the party? Your clothes should be dry by now."

"I don't want to impose…" Picard began, but Gy stopped him.

"You're not. In fact, you'll be doing us both a favor. It's going to take me another half hour to finish up out here - which means that there should be enough time for the water heater to recharge so I can take a shower, too!" he chuckled. "Once the economy kicks back in, the first thing I'm going to buy Ma is a bigger water heater. Then we can run two showers at the same time without one of us freezing and the other getting scalded!" he chuckled – then sounded pounded Picard on the back. "Go on in, John; I'll finish out here," he repeated.

Nodding, Picard turned away, letting himself back into the house with a degree of uncertainty that didn't seem to be part of the man's usual persona, Gy thought – but what that persona was, he had no idea.

Looking at the shovel in his hand, Gy sighed and began to clear out the remaining snow.

As Picard turned off the shower and slid back the shower curtain, he heard a faint knocking on the bathroom door - but before he could voice his response, he heard the door opening.

Hastily grabbing a towel, he barely managed to cover himself before realizing who the intruder was.

"Beverly," he sighed, relieved, then carefully wrapped the towel around his waist.

"Were you expecting someone else?" she smiled.

"No - but I'm still not sure what the social norms were in this time. I thought I remembered my grade school classes talking about the degree of untoward prudery in this culture - but listening to Gy speak, it certainly isn't so in their language," he said.

"What do you mean?" Beverly asked.

"His use of vulgarities: shit, fuck, motherfucker..." He stopped as Beverly smiled. "What?" he asked.

"Those aren't words I would expect to hear coming out of your mouth, Jean-Luc," she said. "The occasional, 'damn', perhaps," she admitted.

"My apologies if I offended you," he replied.

"Oh, I'm not offended," she answered. "It was just out of context, coming from you."

"Perhaps because we are, ourselves, out of context in this place and time," he said. "And speaking of place, I now know where we are."

"Batavia, Illinois - about thirty miles west of Chicago, or so Pat tells me," Beverly answered.

Picard frowned, disappointed that Beverly had deduced their location as well – then pushed his pride aside, reminding himself that Beverly was as good an officer as he was – and if there was information to be learned, she would do so.

"Indeed, and more significantly, it places us about two miles from Fermi Lab - one of the first sites where antimatter was created," Picard countered.

"Oh? Thinking of pilfering a microgram for the shuttle engines?" she teased.

"I hadn't considered that," he admitted, "though without knowing the reasons for why the shuttle's system were losing power, I'm not about to try re-energizing them - yet. And I hope that we don't have to attempt to get past security in a place like that - not with our current lack of resources," he added. "I was more interested in the fact that Fermi Lab - at least the museum dedicated to it - remains into our time. I'm not sure how we can use that to relay a message to Will, but it is something to consider," he told her.

"I'm hoping for something a little speedier - the museum won't even be built for another thirty years," she reminded him.

He raised a brow in question.

Beverly blushed. "Jack and I went there once. I happened to remember the date that the museum was officially dedicated - July 13, 2041. Jack made a big point of the date, since it's the same as your birthday," she added.

"Jack did?" he asked, raising a brow in surprise.

Her blush deepened. "All right: I did. Jack didn't remember his birthday half the time - and he never remembered anyone else's - including mine."

Picard stepped toward her, reaching for her hand. "An oversight which I shall attempt to rectify," he promised.

She tightened her fingers around his, but shook her head. "Don't take it the wrong way, Jean-Luc. Jack didn't do so maliciously or hurtfully. On the contrary, we celebrated whenever he thought it was my day - which meant most years we'd have more than one celebration, and he never seemed to realize it," she added with a fond smile, then looked down at his fingers. "But it would be nice to have someone remember it - on the right day."

He raised her hand to his lip, placed a tender kiss on her fingers, then released her hand. "I shall do my best ."

She pulled her hand back, holding it close to her heart, as if to treasure it - then smiled again. "Perhaps you can wear the same outfit," she murmured, glancing down.

His eyes followed hers - then he hastily tightened the towel around his mid-section. "Ahem. Yes. Perhaps you'll excuse me so I can get dressed?" he added.

Beverly grinned, tempted to say "no", then changed her mind. Not that she wouldn't mind seeing him naked, of course, but his remarks regarding prudery in this time seemed far closer to the mark than Gy's rough language indicated.

And, she added, if I do get him naked, it's not going to be within a light year of Pat's prying eyes, she added as she left the small room.

As it was, Pat had spent the entire morning while they were finishing the dishes for the meal asking her question upon question: about her, Jean-Luc, their relationship, her previous relationships... Beverly had deftly avoided the majority of the questions, trying to turn them back upon her interrogator, hoping she could learn more about where - and when - they had landed, only to find Pat Edrickson nearly as skilled a talker as Jean-Luc was.

In and of themselves, none of the questions had seemed overly intrusive, and to a degree, Beverly had found herself tempted to answer them, if for no other reason than to be friendly with the woman - but at the same time she wanted to present a consistent story with Jean-Luc.

After all, it was one thing to say she, too, was a widow who had raised a son alone - but open that door, and how easily that casual remark could lead to mentioning that Jean-Luc had been Jack's commanding officer - and the questions that could follow from there. At the same time however, appearing to be too secretive might not do well for either of them: Jean-Luc might have been uncertain about the social strictness of the time, but she had no doubt that the united States at the early twenty-first century was a period of extreme vigilance, with neighbor watching over neighbor for any sign of anti-national behavior.

Or so the books had said, she reminded herself; their hosts, on the other hand, had seemed more than open to bringing two strangers into their home with almost no information about their histories.

At least not on that first day. Today, however...

Despite Pat's incessant questions, Beverly had managed to glean a bit more information from their hostess than she had revealed, learning , as Jean-Luc had, that they were now in a small town in Illinois, notable for... well, very little, Beverly realized.

Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, she added hastily - and especially not for the two of them. The less they were noticed between now and whenever they were rescued, the better. The last thing Beverly wanted to do was damage the timeline that would lead to their own universe - or had led to their universe... Damn it, she grumbled wordlessly; I hate trying to figure out the correct tenses for talking about time travel!

Still grumbling, she untied the apron she had been wearing, then pulled the heavy sweatshirt over her head. Shaking her head, she felt her hair fall in soft tumbles of curls over her shoulders and onto her back, then ran her fingers through their length.

She had to admit that old-fashioned water showers definitely had their place; although she had access to a real shower in her quarters on the Enterprise, more often than not, the demands of her job didn't allow for the time need to wash, dry and style her hair as she would have liked. Most days she relied on the sonic shower, knowing it would leave her technically cleaner than a real shower would - but it never seemed to feel that way.

She ran her fingers through the soft locks once more, savoring the feel of truly clean hair then pulled on the black sweater that she had been wearing when Gy had found them. Hearing a soft wound of approval, she turned to face Jean-Luc, and grinned to see him similarly attired.

"You look lovely," he murmured.

"You're quite handsome yourself," she replied. "I approve your choice in tailors."

He was about to make a clever retort when there was a knock at the door. "John? Beverly?" Pat called through the closed door. "Can I come in?'

Picard opened the door, gesturing the woman in. "Did you need us?" he asked.

"No, everything's well in hand – but I thought we ought to get our stories straight before everyone gets here," she said.

Seemingly winded, she made her way to the easy chair, lowering herself into it slowly, then let out a sigh. "I suppose I should apologize for my neighbors in advance," she said, "but you two are going to be the main topic of discussion today. Everyone's going to be curious about the two newcomers – so I thought we ought to make sure we're on the same page about you two. Don't worry about Ralph; he'll go along with whatever we decide," she added.

"Anyway, you're John Picard and Beverly Crusher – Beverly, I suggest you don't mention the fact you're a doctor – you only get everyone either wanting free medical advice or asking where your practice is – or asking you why you're not practicing. So the story is that you're old friends of my husband; you served together in the military. I suggest you tell everyone you're retired, John, so they don't ask too much about where you're serving now. I'm afraid, Beverly, that everyone will just assume you're his girlfriend; you can hardly say you're traveling together without explaining it in more detail than that," she said. "Unless you want to change your last name and just tell everyone you're married," she added with a sly grin.

"Umm…" Beverly hesitated.

"Well, that's up to the two of you – but if you don't at least insinuate that you're together, you're both going to be fair game for the singles. Fortunately, there aren't that many who will be here today – but that's up to you. Just don't say that I didn't warn you!

"In any case, you weren't planning to visit, but your flight through O'Hare was canceled due to the storm. Fortunately, you managed to get out here before we got snowed in and you're staying until you can make other arrangements," she concluded. "And that," she added, "is something we'll need to figure out. Nothing personal, but Gy and I both have to work tomorrow, and…"

"…and you're not comfortable in leaving us alone in your home," Picard concluded.

Pat nodded. "Sorry, but no, I'm not. I'm mean, you both appear to be very nice folks and all, but…"

"But we're strangers," Beverly said. "We do understand, Pat," she added.

"Good," the woman concluded.

"Of course the easiest way to keep an eye on them, Ma, is to keep them with us," Gy offered as he entered the room. "John can come along with me. I presume you can hammer a nail," he added, looking at Picard.

When the man declined to answer instantly, Gy sighed. "Well, I'll find something for you to do," he added. "Ma, you were bitching that you're short-handed at the shop; maybe Beverly can lend a hand until you find someone full-time," he suggested – then stopped as he looked at the two strangers.

"Crap. You two look like a pair of Splinter Cell wanna-bes!" he laughed as he looked over their matching attire. "The only thing you're missing are the black ski caps and the spy gear. Come on John, I gotta have a jacket or something you can wear."

Seeming to notice Beverly's attire for the first time, Pat rose from the chair slowly and extended a hand to Beverly. "I should have something that will fit you as well, my dear," she said, taking Beverly's hand and guiding her up the stairs.

With a reluctant look back at Picard, Beverly followed Pat out of the room; Picard looked at Gy curiously.

"Well, come on!" Gy said. "Unless you want everyone to think you're going to rob their houses while the party's going on," he added.

Uncertainly, Picard followed Gy out of the room.

Jean-Luc Picard hated ambassadorial functions: the crowds, the mindless small talk, the need to pay attention to every word that was said – and to his every response. Of all the responsibilities given to him as a Starfleet captain, it had been the one that he had detested the most.

Strangely, however, he found the same experience here somewhat… liberating.

In this time and place, no one knew who he was: no one knew him as the captain of the Enterprise, or as the unwitting pawn of the Borg, or even as only freshman to ever win the Academy marathon. Better still, no one knew his supposed deceased friend, Christopher Edrickson, and no one could gainsay anything he might say about the man. The only consistency he had to maintain was that of their untimely arrival at Pat's house – and apparently everyone seemed to understand their explanation of their journey being interrupted courtesy of the storm.

There had been more than a few commiserating and understanding comments about "O'Hare", which Picard quickly determined to be the local flight terminal… 'airport', he quickly corrected himself. A few of the older guests had also nodding approvingly at Pat's reference to his being retired – and one gave him a hard elbow to the ribs when he espied Beverly.

"If my Marge looked like that, I'd have retired early, too," he chortled knowingly. "She's a hottie, that one."

Picard had blanched slightly, then nodded blandly, not quite sure what to say – then added what was becoming his standard deflection of the afternoon. "Planning to watch the game?"

The other man quickly forgot his appraisal of the physician and launched into a diatribe of the shortcomings of both teams, looking to Picard every now and then for confirmation.

And, as was becoming equally common, he was relieved – indeed, delighted – to feel the gentle touch of Beverly's hand on his arm a few moments later. "John? Pat was looking for you," she said quietly. "If you might excuse us?" she added to the man.

"Any time, my dear," he replied, the turned away – but not before giving Beverly one last admiring look.

"Thank you," Jean-Luc said as Beverly guided him to the kitchen. "I don't think I could have tolerated hearing one more recitation about why Mr. Cutler – whoever he is - is apparently either horrendously unsuited to being the Bears quarterback or while he is ready for deification for the same thing," he admitted.

"What's a quarterback?" Beverly asked puzzled.

He gave her a resigned look. "I have no idea," he confessed. "I'm not even sure what 'football' is," he added.

"It's a sport of some sort," Beverly explained.

Picard gave her a questioning look.

"Apparently it's acceptable for women to be ignorant on the topic," she said. "Men, however, are supposed to be knowledgeable on the matter – passionately knowledgeable."

Picard sighed. "I fear we're in over our heads, Beverly. Trying to survive in San Francisco in the 1800's was difficult enough – but at least we had knowledge of that time and place. But here? Now? No," he said, shaking his head. "So much knowledge about this time was lost during World War III and the turmoil that followed it that we are working blindly - and that's just about the general knowledge of the day. When it comes to specifics - like this 'football' - we are utterly lost, and we can't claim ignorance without pointing ourselves out as being different!" he complained.

"What choice do we have, Jean-Luc?" she asked softly.

"None," he conceded – then pushed back from her and smiled as he looked at her. "I must say, however, that regardless of when we are, you always wear it well," he told her.

She adjusted the loose-fitting shirt that Pat have given her; it was far too large, of course, but the jewel-toned print highlighted both her sapphire eyes and her red hair – and it soft fabric clung to her curves with delightful tenacity, despite the high necked sweater and thick trousers that she wore beneath the borrowed tunic.

No wonder, Picard thought, that she had been the focus of more than a few stares by Pat's male guests.

"As do you," she countered.

Picard made a deprecatory noise. He was used to the waist length dress jackets of his time - in part because it was the style of the time - and, he admitted reluctantly, because they did flatter his physique. Not that he was vain, he insisted to himself, but... In any case, while the color of the coat that Gy had loaned him seemed to be non-descript enough to suit his tastes, its longer length left him feeling uncomfortable and ill at ease – although it undoubtedly left him looking more appropriate for the time than his Starfleet cold weather gear did.

"I thought I'd never say this – but I miss my dress uniform," he replied.

"No you don't," she countered. "You always complain about those uniforms. You complain about the stiff collars and the scratchy fabrics and how you never can relax when you're wearing them. You only miss them because you miss the safety of having someone else make all the decisions about what you wear."

"Perhaps," he conceded. "Or perhaps I simply prefer it when _you_ help me get dressed," he reminded her.

She gave a soft laugh, then reached up to adjust the neck of his sweater, even though the soft fols required no adjustment. "I'm afraid this will have to suffice for now."

He captured her hand before it could move too far away, bringing it up to his lips and placing a soft kiss on it. "As much as I would like to get home, Beverly, perhaps… perhaps we should embrace this opportunity that we have been given in order to spend some time together. We did seem to find ways to avoid doing so in our time," he reminded her.

She tightened her hand around his fingers, neatly turning his hand so that she could place a kiss on it. "We were rather good at avoiding certain topics. Maybe being here will have its advantages," she agreed – then lowered his hand as she stepped closer to him, her face moving close to his.

He swore he could smell her perfume – but he knew she wasn't wearing any; Beverly's perfume, like their lives, were hundreds of years and hundreds of thousands of miles from here. Here, now, he could smell only that unmistakable scent of her skin, tinged with the scents of this time, this place.

But even so far from home, it was still uniquely, delightfully… Beverly.

He moved closer to her…

"Jeez, you two. Get a room!" Gy said as he entered the kitchen, his hand laden with empty plates, grinning as the two hastily pulled apart.

"Excuse us," Picard said. "We didn't mean…"

"Hey, I'm just yanking your chain. But if you're going to make out, go downstairs; Mom wants to start carving the chickens and I need to catch up on the dishes first," he explained.

"Goodness," Beverly said, taking the dishes from Gy's hands. "We didn't mean to leave all this work to you…"

"Bev," Gy interrupted quietly, "John. You're our guests – not our servants. It's very nice of you to help out – but…"

"You saved our lives, Gy," she countered. "How do we ever say thank you for that?"

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "All right. You can wash the dishes," he conceded. "And you," he added, turning to Picard, "can go collect the plates. The game's going to start in half an hour, which means we're going to get a bunch of visitors soon, and Ma will have a cow if there are dishes all over when they get here. "

Gy deposited the plates by the sink, then returned to the adjacent room, leaving the two alone again – and again, Jean-Luc turned to Beverly.

"You're quite right, of course, Beverly. They saved our lives - so how do we repay them? But then again... you've saved my life more than a few times. So how do I ever thank you for that?" he asked her.

She smiled back. "Hmmm," she purred. "Oh, I'm sure I'll think of something, Jean-Luc."


	9. Chapter 9

January 3 - part 1

At the jingle of the bell at the front door, Beverly looked up and bestowed a smile upon the newcomer.

"Well, well," said the middle-aged man looking her over with unabashed scrutiny. "Pat's got another newbie, I see," he said, then raised his voice. "I hope you can keep this one, Pat; she's the prettiest gal you've hired in a long time!" he shouted toward the back of the small coffee shop.

Pat emerged from the back of the shop, wiping her hands on her apron, smiling at the man. "Happy New Year, Phil," she said, stretching out a hand in greeting.

"And to you, my dear," he replied, taking the hand and placing a glancing kiss on it. "How was the feast?"

"Delicious. Sorry you couldn't join us," she replied.

"We didn't get plowed out until this morning," he grumbled.

"Not to worry; we have plenty of leftovers – and I'll expect you and Georgiana to join us," she said. "It'll give you a chance to meet some old friends who are staying with us for a while: Beverly," she gestured at the redhead, "and her friend John. Their flight got canceled due to the storm, so they're staying with us while they decide what to do next. Beverly's helping me out while she's in town," Pat added.

Phil turned to Beverly, extending his hand to her. "Nice to meet you, Beverly. I hope you know how to make a good latte," he added.

"Actually, I don't have a clue," Beverly admitted.

"Which means I can teach her how to make it exactly the way you like it," Pat added. "Foam the skim milk in the cup, then add 5 sugars and pour three shots of espresso over the top," she explained.

Five sugars? Beverly thought to herself – then turned her attention to making the order as Pat had directed; for all its size and apparent complexity, the equipment was actually quite simple to operate. Within a few minutes, she had assembled the mixture, placed a lid on the top, made an entry into the register, collected the money from the man and handed over the coffee.

Phil raised the cup to his lips, sipped the piping hot liquid – then sighed contentedly. "Perfect, my dear. Pat, you've got a winner here; don't let this one go," he added.

Pat smiled back. "I'm glad you approve – but Beverly and John may have other plans. I'm just thankful that she can help out while she's here. What time should we expect you and Georigana?"

"Six thirty?"

"Six thirty it is," Pat said. "We'll look forward to seeing you both."

"We'll bring the wine. A pleasure to meet you, Beverly," he added, bowing slightly to Beverly as he turned toward the door.

Beverly watched as the door closed behind him, then gave a heavy sigh as she looked at Pat – who smiled back.

"One down – a couple hundred to go," she said. "It's funny, but with all the big coffee chains up on Randall – Starbucks, Caribou – even Dunkin' Donuts – we manage to hold our own down here," she said. "Maybe it's because we're small: we know our customers, and we know their preferences – but at the same time there's a bit of monotony to it: you see the same faces almost every day, prepare the same orders… I think that's one reason we have a hard time keeping good staff here: it gets boring – and the kids we can afford to hire – teenagers, college students – they get bored easily. The pay's decent, if you figure in the tips – for high school kids and college students," she added with a sigh.

"And you, Pat? Do you get bored doing this?" Beverly asked.

Pat gave a half-hearted nod. "Somedays, yes. But… this is my shop. It's a little different when it's your place; I take pride in seeing that look of satisfaction in each and every client's face – and in knowing that I'm doing something for my friends and my community – even if it is only serving coffee – and tea, and muffins and soup…" she added with a smile.

"I take it that you enjoy cooking," Beverly said.

"I do. With only Gy and myself in the house, there isn't much chance to cook – and since he's out of the house almost every night, there's not much opportunity to do so. I have a few parties every year – but for the most part, I indulge my culinary passions here," she admitted.

Beverly nodded in commiseration. "I would imagine it's difficult when your child has an active social life."

Pat raised a brow in question. "Social life?"

"You said Gy is out almost every night," Beverly replied – only to hear Pat start to laugh.

"Gy's not socializing – he's working!" she chuckled – then reached for Beverly's hand and guided her from behind the counter to the front windows of the coffee shop. "See that?" she said, pointing across the street to a small, non-descript doorway that was lodged snuggle between two old brick buildings.

"Yes?" Beverly replied uncertainly, not sure what she was looking at.

"Well, the building on the left is an old apartment building, and the building on the right is a marketing firm – but if you go through that door and up a flight of stairs, you'll be at TKD Martial Arts – Gy's Taekwondo studio," she said proudly.

"Taekwondo?" Beverly echoed. "Your son teaches martial arts?" she said in surprise.

"In his infinite spare time," she said with a chuckle. "In addition to running his own construction business, he's a third degree black belt and teaches martial arts," Pat added proudly.

She let her voice drop slightly. "It was actually my school first," she added shyly.

"You teach martial arts?" Beverly replied in astonishment.

"I did – until a year and a hundred pounds ago!" Pat chuckled. "Gy started in grade school, and I joined him after a few years – his instructor talked me into it. Then Gy got his first degree belt and he dropped out – but I continued. I made it to third degree – then one day, our instructor didn't show up. I ran the class that day – and every day since – until about a year ago. It finally got to be too much working here in the mornings, then teaching until eight every night. Gy had resumed his studies in the meantime, and while I had made it to fourth degree, he reached third – and I felt comfortable in leaving the school in his hands.

"So now I'm home at night – but he's out!" she chuckled.

"That must be difficult for you," Beverly said softly. "You're obviously close to Gy…"

"I am. But he's a grown young man with a life of his own – which is as it should be," she added soberly. "Even if he wasn't teaching, he'd be out with Corrie or his friends or off gaming or whatever… and once the economy improves, he'll probably move out and get a place of his own. But that's as it should be," she repeated.

"It doesn't make it easier," Beverly said sympathetically.

Pat glanced at the redhead with a curious expression. "You say that as if you've been through it," she said, almost in accusation.

Beverly hesitated – then nodded. "My son…"

"You have a son?"

"His name is Wesley."

"Is John his father?"

Beverly's eyes widened in surprise – then she let out a chuckle. "No. My husband – Jack – died when Wesley was quite young. I raised him alone until he was eighteen. Since then he's been off studying…"

"Don't you want to let him know where you are?" Pat interrupted worriedly.

"I wish I could," Beverly sighed. "Unfortunately, he's been… traveling… for the last few years. I hear from him every now and then, but not as often as I would like."

"Maybe he's jealous of your relationship with John," Pat mused.

"What? No," Beverly replied, genuinely amused. "John was a friend of the family since well before Wesley was born. He was the best man at our wedding. Wesley looks up to him as both a father-figure, and as a friend. I don't think jealousy is an issue," she said. "In any case, I think one reason John and I never considered a relationship before this is because we wanted to respect Wesley's memories of his father."

Pat nodded. "I put my life on hold for Gy for a long time. I'm not sure it was the best idea. He still resents it when I go out on dates – and he's almost apoplectic when Ralph spends the night."

Beverly nodded as blandly as she could, wondering how Wesley would have handled it if she had brought a lover home with her when they were still sharing quarters. Probably not well, she decided – though opting for a celebate lifestyle had never been a conscious decision, she realized, at first probably out of respect and love for her husband, then for her son – and then, for the most part, because no man, in the flesh, lived up to her fantasies about Jean-Luc.

"Ahp, here comes Shelley," she said, glancing down the street. "Extra large coffee, and a toasted English muffin – but don't start it until she places the order: she likes to think she's unpredictable," Pat added.

Four hours later, Beverly knew a hundred of Pat's regulars, and had been brought up to date on the latest gossip, including whose cars had been stuck in whose driveways during the storm, and the jocular speculation on the presumed increase in the birthrate nine months from that date.

She had also learned quite a bit about the history of the small town, including the buildings that lined either side of the street that spanned the river - and the other river towns north and south of Batavia.

We need a map, she thought. If we had a map we could plot out where Gy found us, and Jean-Luc should be able to determine how far we walked after we got out of the river – and knowing we were walking for more than an hour before we reached the river… we should be able to work out the general area where the shuttle crashed, she thought hopefully.

And then…? Beverly asked herself.

And then we'll still be lost, four hundred years out of our own time, she reminded herself, despair welling up in her heart.

Oh, Jean-Luc, are we ever going to get home?


	10. Chapter 10

January 3 - part 2

"Hungry?"

"Yes," Jean-Luc said instantly. On another day - in another time - he would have hesitated, thinking about the correct, diplomatic response to the question: would an honest answer insult his host? Would admitting to hunger be construed as a sign of weakness? Should the answer be veiled in certain layers of ritual protocol?

Today, however, honesty reigned supreme - and even if his mouth hadn't replied, his stomach was making no attempt to conceal its opinions.

Gy chuckled at his companion's reaction. "Amazing what a little work out will do for your appetite," he laughed.

"A _little_ workout?" Picard replied in disbelief. The two men had spent more than six hours loading building supplies into the pick-up truck that Gy was driving, ferrying them out to building sites, then unloading the truck – and then repeating the tasks four more times. The work wasn't overly strenuous, Picard thought – but even light tasks repeated over and over took their toll – and these weren't light tasks. He was definitely feeling the effects of his efforts in his arms and back.

And in his stomach.

It had been a long time since he had worked hard enough to be physically exhausted – and achingly hungry.

"That's a typical morning around here," Gy informed him. "I like to make sure the materials are on site before my crews get out in the morning – then I spend the afternoon handling the operations of the business and the school – you know: answering calls, setting appointments for the following day, class plans for the week…"

"It sounds as though you keep busy," Picard murmured.

"Too busy," Gy sighed. "I don't have time for Cor – which might not be such a bad thing," he added. "I mean she's a nice girl and all – but I'm not sure I want to settle down – at least not with her," he added. "I'm probably going to have to shit or get off the pot pretty soon," he went on. "Valentine's Day is six weeks away – and since I didn't give her an engagement ring from Christmas or New Year's, she's definitely going to be expecting one for V Day – or she's going to dump me."

"I see," Picard murmured.

"No, you don't," Gy sighed. "Cor's a nice girl – but she's in with a tough bunch. If they decide that I'm at fault for a break-up, I wouldn't be surprised if they took it out on me."

Picard was taken aback. "Your life would be in danger?" he replied, appalled. "Can't you go to the local, uh… police?" he asked, searching for the word.

To his relief, Gy chuckled. "You're giving those cowards far too much credit – and too much courage! They wouldn't dare go after a person – but I wouldn't be surprised if they did something like broke into the school and trashed it. Mom's coffee shop is safe – there's a tenant living in the second floor apartment over the shop, so any noise downstairs would be reported to the police - but while there's an apartment over the school, no one lives there – mostly because it's part of the school," he added. "No separate entrance and so on. If Cor's friends got it into their thick little heads to ransack the place, I wouldn't know until the next day. Not that there's much they could do - maybe steal my katana, tear up the heavy bags and so on. We don't keep anything of value there - but I'm not really in a position to replace all of the equipment," he added unhappily.

"I mean, I really enjoy teaching... or rather, I really enjoyed it - but it's taking more and more of my time to run the construction business every day, and I have less time and energy for the school," he sighed. "I think that the quality of my teaching suffers," he added unhappily.

Picard look at Gy, confused. "If you enjoy teaching that much, why not give up this job in order to do that?" he asked.

Gy smiled. "I will - just as soon as I win the lottery," he chuckled.

_Lottery?_ Picard thought, confused.

Oblivious to the man's question, Gy continued, "I've run the school for the last year or so, after Mom stepped down to focus on the coffee shop. In the year I've run it - and in the years Mom ran it, we never took home a steady paycheck. In fact we've had to pony up out of our own money just to pay the rent sometimes.

"You teach, John, because you love it - not because you intend to get rich. There are a lot of schools and a lot of franchises that rake it in, hand over fist - but when I go to those schools and see what they're doing, I see people signing long-term contracts, committing to mandatory weekend seminars and training camps - at a couple of grand each! - and all I see are dollar signs. I don't see teachers who love to teach martial arts: I see businesses, being operated for a profit.

"Call me an idealist, but I want to teach so that I can help students develop themselves into better people, better able to be functioning members of society," he said. "I want to shape the leaders - and just the everyday people - of the next generation," he sighed.

"But the school is, at best, a break even operation; I can't risk losing what income I have from this job to hope that I could make a go of that one. Could you?" he added, looking at Picard as they came to a red light. "Could you give up everything just to pursue a dream?"

Picard looked at his companion, then glanced away, staring at the snow covered sidewalks that banked both sides of the street, watching as a young woman, accompanied by two small children entered a store on a corner.

I gave that up for Starfleet, he reminded himself; I gave up my family, my father and brother, I almost gave up a chance to be with my nephew – all for my dream. I gave up love, my own family… Beverly…

He finally looked back at Gy. "I did."

Soberly, Gy replied, "Was it worth it?"

Picard only hesitated for a moment – then smiled. "Yes. Oh, yes," he assured the man.

"And no regrets?"

Picard managed a half-shrug. "Perhaps a few."

Gy chuckled. "Beverly, I take it," he said, then leaned turned his head, and waved a hand toward someone in one of the store windows.

Following his gaze, Picard stared at the window – and was dumbfounded to see Beverly smiling back. He barely managed to raise his hand to greet her when the truck lurched forward at the change of the light and turned down a side street – and pulled into a large parking lot situated behind a row of old buildings.

"Come on," he said as he turned off the truck and pulled out the key. "If we're going to have lunch, let's eat at the best place in town."

"And that would be…?"

"Mom's coffee shop," he replied, as though that knowledge should have been self-evident. "She makes the best soup. Come on!" he added, slamming the door shut behind him and starting to walk back toward the street.

Picard hurriedly exited the vehicle and followed Gy to the closest intersection. He was about to step into the road when he realized the young man wasn't moving; clearly there was some sort of protocol about who had priority at the crossroads - and equally clearly, it wasn't the pedestrians.

One more thing to learn about this time, he noted - then realized Gy had stepped into the road and begun to cross it.

Seeing the man's hesitancy, Gy chuckled, waving the man to join him. "Yeah, yeah, I know: wait for the 'walk' sign," he said, making an offhand gesture at a post that stood on the far corner. An outline of a hand was illuminated in red, indicating that crossing the road was... forbidden? Picard wondered. Or perhaps simply not advised? The meaning of the lights was yet another thing he had to learn if they were to survive in this time.

"But I've lived here forever - and I know that you've got a few seconds to cross before the cars can make the left turn here," he explained. "Route 25 makes this weird jog here," he pointed up the steep road, "then jogs back north again. The big rigs can't make the corner if there's a car in the turn lane, so they pushed the lane back a hundred feet so the cars wouldn't get wrecked when the trucks make the turn. It gives pedestrians a chance to cross first - if they know about the delay. Otherwise they have to wait until after the cars turn. Not a big deal today, but during the summer, when there's a hundred people on the bike path, all crossing here, it's a pain."

Picard nodded blandly.

"The trail goes all the way up to the Wisconsin border, following the Fox River. There's a couple of places - like here - where the path gets too close to the water, and every time the river rises, the path gets covered - so everyone come up here, crosses over, then goes back to the trail behind the school. That's why Mom put the shop here - because you can get hundred of bikers stopping in on the weekends when the weather's nice," he added.

"And when it isn't?" Picard asked.

"That made it tough the first year - then Mom finally got established as a local business. It's still slower in the winter, but she cuts back on personnel, takes more hours on herself, and we still make out okay - especially now that she's added lunch to the menu!" he added. "Come on!" he said, pulling open the angled door and ushering Picard into a small store.

"Ma!" Gy called out as he entered behind Picard, pulling off his gloves and depositing them on one of the small tables. "We're here!" he announced, smiling at Beverly as he walked toward the back of the store.

Picard's gaze followed Gy's, and he found himself smiling, rather shyly, at her.

Strange, he thought; I never realized what just looking at her does to me. Just seeing her here... I feel so... happy. "Hello, Beverly," he said quietly.

"Hello, John," she replied, almost blushing as she did so.

Pat grumbled as she walked out from the back room, shaking her head in disapproval. "You don't have to roar when you come in, Gy. Beverly saw the truck when you drove by and we've set the table." Still, she reached for his son's hands, pulled him to her and kissed his cheek - then pulled back and examined his hands. "Go wash," she ordered him, then glared at Picard. "You, too. No dirty hands at my dinner table," she informed him sternly - though the glint in her eye indicated there was more good humor than annoyance in her words. "It's lentil soup today," she added. "Something hot and filling for a cold day."

"Thank you, Pat, but you didn't have to go out of your way for us..."

She slapped his arm lightly, dismissing his concerns. "Go on with you!" she chuckled. "This is a restaurant! I made soup for two hundred; one hundred and ninety six to be sold, and four for us!" she chuckled. "And besides that, what are you and Beverly going to do? Stand there and look hungry while we eat?"

"We could..."

"You could do nothing," she reminded him. "The last time I looked, neither of you had cash or a credit card! In any case, Beverly's been doing her share here today; I have no doubt you've done the same with Gy - and judging from the way you both look, that's been quite a bit. The least I can do is to feed you. Now, go wash. Beverly, let's dish up that soup and sit down in back. I think there's a plate of samosas left..."

A half hour later, Picard sat back from the table, his stomach full from the soup and the small pastries, and more than a little warm from the intense spices within.

"It wasn't too much for you, was it, John?" Pat asked worriedly. "I love the taste of the fresh ginger and the vegetables, but I could cut back next time..."

Picard raised his hand in protestation. "They were delicious, Pat," he said in sincere honesty.

"May I ask if you're a vegetarian, Pat?" Beverly interrupted. "I noticed at the party that you made a majority of the dishes without meat - and these..."

"Samosas. I make mine with cauliflower, peas, potatoes - and lots of ginger," she added with a grin. "But to answer your question, no: as much as Ralph would love me to cut meat out of my diet, there's nothing like a thick juicy steak every now and then. But I've been on a kick about Indian food the last few months, and Partha - from the salon down the street - gave me her mother's recipe for the samosas and the soup, and I've become addicted."

"I could see how that could happen," Beverly said, picking up the remnants of the third pastry she had taken and popping it into her mouth, then rose and began to clear the table.

"Oh, I'll get those," Pat said, but the physician shook her head. "You cooked - and did all the work this morning while showing me how to do everything. Why don't you sit for a moment, and John and I can clean up," she said, looking at Picard meaningfully.

He looked back, about to decline the suggestion, then hastily stood as he saw her expression. "It would be my pleasure, Ms. Crusher," he informed her.

Clearing the remaining plates, he followed Beverly into the adjoining room, which turned out to be a small, but well-equipped kitchen. Following her lead, he rinsed off the dishes, placed them in a machine - a dishwasher, Beverly informed him - then closed the door of the machine, straightened, and looked at her.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" she countered.

"I presume you brought me in here for a reason - other than to put the dishes away," he added.

"Isn't that reason enough? That's what I've spent my day doing," she informed him.

He sighed, sensing her frustration. She was after all, the CMO of the flagship of the Federation - and now she was reduced to washing dishes and serving coffee.

As I am reduced to manual labor, he thought to himself.

He reached for her, taking her shoulders in her hands and pulling her into him. "We'll get home, Beverly. I promise. But for now..."

He felt her shudder against him - then pull back, smiling bravely. "I know we will. It's what we _don't_ know that's bothering me. Normally, I'd just scan everyone and everything - but the tricorder power supply is almost drained. I don't want to use it until I know we can recharge it - and I think we may have to get back to the shuttlecraft in order to do that! Except we don't know where it is," she added.

He nodded, understanding her worries and having more than a few of his own. Recharging the tricorder was something he could probably do, given the technology of this time - but the information it contained was limited. If they were going to get back, they needed to pull information from the shuttle's computer core - if that still worked.

And if it didn't... If it didn't, they needed to destroy the shuttle. The temporal Prime Directive was clear in this matter; they could leave nothing in this time period that would alter the future path of these people - especially, Picard thought to himself, when what these people did, here and now, would affect his very existence in the future!

Still, there was something troubling about Beverly's concerns - something beyond the scanner not working.

Or maybe not, he added, a worried thought coming to his mind.

"Is there something else, Beverly?" he asked.

"I think that whatever affected the power supply to the shuttle and the tricorder may have had an effect on us, Jean-Luc," she said.

"What kind of effect?"

She shook her head. "I don't know - but... I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted. I'll admit doing this type of work is far different from what I usually do - but I do consider myself to be in good condition. A few hours a physical labor shouldn't wear me out like this!" she said.

He shook his head, agreeing with her. "It shouldn't - and I'll admit I'm not feeling quite right either. I had written it off to the accident, the fall in the river - and the fact that in those rare instances when I am injured or ill, you normally return me to my usual good health in record time. To be blunt, Beverly, is it possible that we're simply not used to recovering without the aid and assistance of our technology?" he asked her.

She met his gaze, a hint of anger in her expression - then sighed, relenting. "Maybe," she admitted - then added, "and maybe not. Time travel seems to be related to a decrease in one's health. There were more than a few instances of prolonged illnesses after we traveled back to Earth after the Borg sphere," she reminded him.

"Given the traumatic circumstances and the release of Borg contaminants into the ship's atmosphere through their modifications to the ship, that would be almost inevitable," he countered. "However, none of us were ill after we traveled to San Francisco to retrieve Data," he added.

"Ah, but we didn't use a temporal vortex for that," she reminded him. "That was an engineered time portal. However, the naturally occurring particles may be different! I suspect that the chronometric particles in their natural state - such as the ones we encountered with the Borg and when we went around the sun - may have a deleterious effect on all power systems, both mechanical and biological..." she mused.

"Which would make for a fascinating research paper, Doctor," he interrupted dryly, "when we get home. In order to do that, however, we're going to need to learn enough about this time and how it relates to our time and find a way to send a message to someone who can come back and find us," he reminded her.

"Which presupposes that we can," she added. "Jean-Luc, what if they can't find us?" she asked him.

"Now that _is_ your fatigue talking, Beverly," he said sternly. "For the next few days, let's try to get our bearings, both physically and physiologically, then approach this problem as we would do back on the ship: calmly and logically. First things first: we need to find the shuttle," he informed her.

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. "That means we need to find a map of the region. I think we can access one at the library, which is just down the street," she added.

"Do you think you can get there without raising Pat's suspicions?" he asked.

"Me?" she replied. "Jean-Luc, I'm working here from five in the morning until whenever Pat decided we're leaving," she reminded him.

"As I am working with Gy those same hours," he reminded her - then sighed. "However, my position doesn't leave me walking distance from the site of my resources," he reminded her.

"Fine - except how am I to get back? Walking? Let me remind you that it's more than five kilometers to Pat's house, and by the time I'm through at the library, it will be dark - not to mention that the snow is at least waist deep in places," she replied.

He gave her a questioning look. "Indeed. Perhaps you aren't in the physical condition you thought you were," he said.

Beverly gaped at him, outraged. "I beg your pardon..." she seethed – then realized he was smiling. "You…" she started – then slapped his arm.

His smile morphed into a soft chuckle; apologetically, he moved close, reaching for her arm, only to have her pull away.

"Don't," she said angrily.

"I apologize, Beverly," he offered, still smiling, "but you don't often give me the chance to avenge myself against your wicked sense of humor," he said. "You must admit rarely put yourself in such a vulnerable position; how could I not take advantage of opportunity?"

"Hmpf. I thought a starship captain could resist every temptation," she grumbled.

"A starship captain? Indeed – but Jean-Luc Picard, the man?" he replied. "Some things are simply too tempting for a mere mortal to endure," he said softly.

She gave him a caustic look. "Flattery, Jean-Luc – but I'm not falling for it. If you want to get some research done, you're going to have to put in some time as well."

He gave a plaintive sigh.

Beverly raised a worried brow. "What's the matter?" she asked.

"Let's just say that time may soon weigh heavily upon my hands. Based on my efforts today, Gy isn't about to hire me as a worker," he informed her. "Apparently, when hammering, one should strike the nail, not one's own thumb." He raised his left hand, displaying a well-bruised thumb as evidence of his failure.

"Oh, no," she sighed, reaching reflexively for her medical scanner – then realizing that she didn't have it with her. "Are you all right?" she asked.

"My ego was more damaged than my finger," he conceded. "But I think Gy is trying to figure out where he can use me in his construction crew – and is failing miserably."

"You're more suited to being a leader, Jean-Luc" she said. "You always have been, even when you were a cadet," she said.

"I don't know about that – but Gy already has a leader for his company – and that man is Gy. There's nothing I can do at his company beyond manual labor - and it turns out that I'm not very good at that," he admitted.

"Which means you'll have ample time to do the research we need," she countered.

He raised a brow. "And in return for my doing nothing, I should expect Pat and Gy to continue to feed and house me?" he asked angrily.

She replied, equally irritated - though at him, rather than the situation. "You're not doing _nothing_; you're trying to get us home - or did you forget that?" she asked bitterly. "I'll work here to offset the costs of supporting us; you'll work to get us home."

They glared at one another for a long moment - then a soft throat-clearing from the door broke their concentration. As one, they turned to face the intruder.

"Sorry to interrupt this lovefest," he said, trying hard not to smile, "but... Have you two got a few minutes?" he asked.

Beverly turned to Picard, giving - and receiving one final glare - then looked back at their host. "Of course!" she said sweetly.

Gy tried not to chuckle; he'd seen a lovers' quarrel often enough to know what was happening - and, he thought to himself, he really didn't want to be around them.

Which made this all the better of an idea, he added.

"Grab your coats. We're going to take a short walk."


	11. Chapter 11

January 3 - part 3

It was a short walk, indeed; they pulled on their coats, left the shop, crossed the street - and found themselves at a non-descript door that seemed wedged into the row of old buildings that separated the street where the coffee shop was located and the parking are where Gy had left his truck.

Two pillars made of cement aped the design of classic columns, framing an inset entryway, while an ancient electrical fixture hung, unused and badly rusted, from the ceiling of that covered space. On the ground before the door, Picard could make out a mosaic-tiled floor, with chipped and faded black and white tiles spelling out the words, "Geiss Block".

Gy pulled out a heavy set of keys, separated one from the rest , slid it into the lock, then pulled open one of the two glass doors. "Gotta get that door fixed," he muttered as he sidled through the one door, then told the two, "Sorry; it's a bit narrow there. That other door doesn't open. Well, it does, but only if you remove the locks," he sighed.

Entering a small foyer, he thumbed the antique light switch, and several bare fluorescent lights flickered on, harshly illuminating a huge staircase. Glancing up, Picard noted that two of the four lights weren't functioning - a glance Gy followed a moment later. "Gotta replace that light," he murmured - the gestured for the two to join him as he mounted the stair case.

Beneath their feet, linoleum tiles covered the stairs, cracked and warped with age, weather, and the white stains of the salt that covered the sidewalks outside. "Gotta replace the stairs," Gy muttered.

A handrail was attached to the walls on both sides of the stairs - but abruptly, just after the first landing, the right hand rail disappeared. "Gotta replace that railing," Gy added to himself.

At the second floor landing, he sought out a second key, opened the lock, the pulled open a heavy wood door that had been lacquered red at some point in its long life. Now, the rich wood below showed through where the paint had peeled or been chipped off. "Gotta repaint that," he sighed.

Opening the heavy door, he ushered Jean-Luc and Beverly into another entry way, reached to one side and turned on a series of switches. Stepping out from behind Gy, Beverly gave a soft gasp.

Before her was a huge room, maybe fifteen by thirty meters, with ceilings that must have been seven meters high. Light panels hung from the ceiling, casting soft warm light on the hard wood floors, while a wall of glass blocks at the far side of the room allowed filtered sunlight to fill the space. On one wall was a series of colorful banners adorned with unfamiliar writing, while the other was covered with posters, each displaying a quotation.

Closest to where they stood was a row of chairs, empty now, and an old couch, all pushed away from the wall, allowing passage behind the chairs toward another set of doors.

"My school," he said, with more than a touch of pride. "I wish it was more elegant, more traditional, but..." He sighed and gave a shrug. "Hey, after all these years, we're still here, when most schools close after 6 months. It's not what I wanted, but we survive. Provided Cor's 'friends' don't change that," he added worriedly.

"Which is why," he continued, fumbling through the keys yet again, "I wanted to show you this."

Leading them through the room, he opened a door leading back toward the front of the building, then turned sharply to guide them to another locked door. Opening it, he moved up a set of narrow but plushly carpeted stairs, then turned once more.

Clearly, Picard realized, there was another room above the school - or rather, he amended as he made it to the top of the stairs and saw the two small windows there, overlooking the school.

Except it wasn't just a room, he realized as Beverly joined him; a small desk faced the top of the stairs, marking it as an office - but behind it was an old bed, a few small tables, a kitchen area - and beyond, through an open door, stood what was most likely a bathroom.

And on every visible surface lay papers, bags, posters, hardware, various types of equipment that Picard didn't recognize...

"What a mess," Beverly muttered quietly - though not quietly enough.

Gy turned to smile at her. "Yeah. It's not that I didn't try to keep it clean, but there never seemed to eb enough hours in the day. It got to where I was spending every Sunday here, cleaning, just trying to keep up with the crap left after every night - and then I decided it wasn't worth the effort.

"But," he said, turning to face them seriously, "it might be worth _your_ effort," he told them.

Beverly looked at the room, gauging the amount of work needed to make it presentable, then sighed her agreement. If this was part of the cost of staying here while they tried to find a way back home, then they'd have to do it.

Seeing the look on her face, Gy let out a chuckle. "I think you have the wrong idea, Beverly. I don't want you to clean this for me - or rather, I do - but for a different reason.

"I want you two to clean this place up - and move in."

Jean-Luc turned to face his benefactor, but before he could ask the question, Gy was already explaining. "Look, I told Jean-Luc that I have a problem," he told Beverly, "that my girlfriend's friends might take it into their pea-sized brains to trash the place if we break up - but if I let it be known that someone's staying here, I sincerely doubt they'd do anything."

"Then why not just say we're staying here?" she asked.

Gy's smile faded and he let out a sigh. "I could - and I would - but..."

"It's difficult to have four people - two of them strangers - living in your house," she concluded for him.

Relieved, Gy nodded. "There wasn't enough water for everyone to take a shower this morning," he said quietly. And with all of us having to be gone at 5:00 AM, it's a logistical challenge. And it doesn't give any of us any privacy. When my friend Greg had to live with us a few months, Ma and I nearly went crazy; sometimes just having the two of us in the house is one too many," he added. "Four is a disaster waiting to happen."

"But while this room isn't big," he added, "it's bigger than most apartments in the area. The bathroom is enormous," he continued. "The kitchen is little more than a hot plate, a microwave and a sink - but I can handle some upgrades. In the meantime, Ma says you can eat at the shop, or she'll send home dinner with you... if you ask nice, she'll even let you use the kitchen in the shop should you find yourself in need of cooking your own food," he added with a smile. "Admittedly, the place needs some minor repairs and a paint job - and some furniture, and linens, and... okay, it needs a lot. But I'll help you with that - and it would be a place for you two to figure out what you're going to do without worrying that Ma dn me are listening in on your every word," he continued.

"So here's the deal: Beverly, you work for Mom - at least until you can figure out what you intend to do. She'll pay you cash, so you don't have to worry about taxes. That should cover your day-to-day expenses. John, you watch the school and the building; in return, you both stay here rent free.

"We'll foot the bill for getting you both some clothes and some other basics - you can't wear those old sweats every day," he added, glancing at the matching red sweatshirts that his mother had found in the back of a closet.

"Gy..." Picard began to protest - but the young man simply raised his hands, blocking off whatever the man could say.

"Think about it. It's not much - but it's the best I can do - and even if it's only for a day or a month, it's a viable, if temporary, solution for all of us. When you're done thinking and talking, come on back to the shop," he concluded.

His hands still in the air, he turned, headed down the stairs; a moment later, the two could hear him as he moved across the school's old wood floors. A loud bang followed a moment later as the front door closed behind him.

Picard looked at Beverly, then muttered, "Gotta fix that door."

To his relief, she burst out laughing at his impression of their host - then sobered quickly and moved closer to Picard.

"This place is a disaster," she said quietly.

"Agreed - but it's also less than a quarter kilometer from the library, meaning we can research the area fairly easily and without eliciting any questions from Pat," he pointed out. "More importantly, if my preliminary calculations are correct, the shuttle must have crashed within a few kilometers of our present location - given the length of time we walked and how far the river carried us downstream. Even if I'm off by a percentage, we're still in the correct area. Again, our explorations shouldn't induce any comments, as the area is widely used by bicyclists and hikers."

"But that means we'll need to find the shuttle and either hide it or destroy it before someone else finds it first," Beverly realized - then looked over the space once again. "But even so..."

"Even so..." he repeated - then smiled at her. "For all the mess here, it's larger than your quarters or my quarters back on the Enterprise. It can easily accommodate two people," he pointed out. "But speaking of the _Enterprise_... does anything strike you about this room?"

She looked around, noting the odd, multi-hued paint scheme, the deeply set trayed ceiling with its faux skylights, the three small windows that were inset into that skylight - but so far above their heads that a ladder would have been needed to reach them - the three shelves across from the windows and their dust-covered artificial plants, then lowered her gaze to the two windows that opened onto the martial arts school area, and the massive mural of a city at night that adorned the same wall - and started to shake her head.

And then she saw it. Above the bed, the wall sloped in a graceful curve, from just over the headboard until it reached the trayed ceiling, in a twenty-first recapitulation of the curves that adorned their living quarters on the _Enterprise_.

"Just paint it black and put in a few stars..." he said quietly.

"...and we could be at home," she replied.

Beverly turned to Picard, reaching out her arms to him, and falling into his proffered embrace as he did the same thing.

"I don't know," she conceded, adding, "but then I don't see where we have a choice - for now. So... I guess this is home sweet home... at least until Will finds us."


	12. Chapter 12

January 4 - 10

Beverly found an odd comfort in the patterns that her life took in the days that followed. Used to the regimented pattern of life on a starship, she didn't find the early hours a burden – especially as there were no late night emergencies to drag her from her well-deserved rest. The work, however, was another matter.

Not that it was onerous – far from it – but there was an undeniable fatigue in the somewhat mindless repetition of serving food and coffee to the dozens of people who stopped in the shop every day. Nonetheless, she had quickly warmed to the local people – and they were more than pleased with Pat's newest barrista, especially as she demonstrated her ability with memorizing names, favorite foods and beverages – and with her quick wit.

"You're going to have to drop John's name into the conversation a bit more, my dear," Pat said as they emptied the dishwasher.

"John? Why?" Beverly replied, curious.

Pat smiled. "That – or be prepared to fend off the wolves. You're pretty, smart – and you're not wearing a ring, which means you're probably available, and the men in town will be thinking about asking you out. If that's what you want, then fine – but if not, you might want to bring up John's name every now and then – let it be known that you're involved…"

"But we're not!" she protested. "John and I are just…"

"…friends," Pat chuckled. "Yes, I know. You both say it often enough, though I wonder who you're trying to convince: me – or yourselves? Any who, if you're interested in dating around, just keep going as you are – but if you're not, you might want to bandy John's name about – just in passing, of course. Nothing too obvious."

Beverly raised a brow. " 'Any who'?" she repeated.

"You really aren't from around here, are you?" the woman said. "It's just a local turn of phrase. It means the same thing as 'any how' or 'any way'. But… If you are interested in playing the field, you ought to know that John's not going to be lacking for attention, either. I've seen the way the ladies look at him when he's in here at lunch… he's pretty tasty eye candy, if you know what I mean," she said.

_No, I don't have a clue,_ Beverly thought to herself.

"But if you two are all right with that kind of relationship…" the woman continued.

"Pat," Beverly interrupted, "I don't know what kind of relationship we have – except as friends. And right now, neither of us in a position to think about dating anyone – including one another," she explained. "We've been working with you and Gy during the day, working at the school at night…"

"Speaking of the school, how is the great clean-up going?" Pat interrupted in turn.

Beverly sighed. "It seems to be never-ending. We started by trying to organize the school files – but that meant moving everything to the downstairs office, except Gy had turned that into a stock room – so we had to move the supplies into the main closet – except that was where Gy had his cleaning supplies…"

Pat chuckled. "He's actually very organized – when he has the time to do so."

"I wasn't criticizing," Beverly apologized hurriedly.

"Oh, my dear, I didn't think you were! Running the school is a full time job – but Gy's already got one of those. So, have you actually found the floor upstairs yet – or is it still buried beneath boxes of balloons and old posters?"

Beverly smiled. "We have – at least in part. Jean-L… John and I were going to start painting the bathroom tonight…"

"Well, John is going to have to start that task on his own," Pat interrupted. "You and I have some work of our own to do," she said.

"Work?"

"Actually, it's not work – it's pleasure! We have to go shopping!"

"Shopping?" Beverly replied. "For what?"

"For what? For everything!" the woman replied. "Dear, you two have been wearing the same clothes since you got here – you both need a change or two, not to mention some underwear… I'm sorry, but the budget doesn't allow for a trip to Soma for some pretties for you, so Target will have to suffice until you've saved some money…then again, if you're not dating John, I don't suppose it makes a difference you're wearing a lace thong or cotton briefs," she chuckled.

Beverly gaped at her acquaintance. "Pat, surely you don't mean to buy us clothes! You've done more than enough…"

"Not only am I going to buy you clothes, but we're going to have to get bed linens, towels, cleaning supplies, soaps, lotions, some furniture… And don't even think you're going to talk me out of this!" Pat said firmly. "I've been waiting for Gy to move out for years so I could help him furnish his new home – except he hasn't done so! So I have every intention of living vicariously through you two, and you will not disappoint me by saying I can't," she insisted. "Am I understood?"

Beverly's eyes widened at the protest – then meekly, knowing that there was no point in attempting to stop an unstoppable force, she replied, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good. Because I'm really looking forward to watching you ask John what size underpants he wears," Pat chuckled as she walked back to the front of the store.

A moment later, the bell at the door chimed; wiping her hands on her apron, Beverly quickly followed her, ready to face the next customer – then smiled.

"Gy," she said welcoming as the man broke from his embrace with his mother and turned to face her – then her smiled widened slightly as John entered the store behind him.

"John," she said warmly.

"Beverly," he replied, reaching a hand to her. "Are you ready to leave? I wanted to get started on the bathroom right away," he said, declining to mention that an early start would give them a chance to visit the library and return before Gy came back to the school to teach the evening class.

"No, she isn't," Pat interrupted. "Beverly and I have some serious work to do – so the painting is in your hands, John – at least until we get back."

Gy rolled his eyes. "Serious work, my ass. You're going shopping, aren't you?" he sighed.

"I am – unless you have any objections," she answered dryly.

He raised his hands, yielding to her. "In that case, John and I are going to unload the truck, and I'll meet you at home, later," he said. "Come on, John," he added, heading for the door.

Picard looked at Beverly, who glanced at Pat.

The woman sighed. "Go on. I'll come get you when Chrissie and Mark arrive," she said, then turned, sighing, "Deprive an old lady of her thrills."

Hearing the words, Picard looked at Beverly with a perplexed look. "I'll explain later," she said. "Let me get my coat."

A few minutes later, the two crossed the busy street to where Gy had parked the truck. Opening the back door, he began to pull out two large buckets, along with a box of unfamiliar equipment.

"Primer," Jean-Luc explained, "rollers, roller covers, painter's tape, brushes, stir sticks…"

"And you know what to do with all of this?" Beverly asked him as she took the box.

"Not a clue," he admitted. "But I'm about to find out. What was it that Pat was talking about?" he asked as he took two of the paint buckets.

Beverly smiled. "She wanted to watch when I asked you what size underpants you wore," she informed him.

His eyes widened. "I beg your pardon?"

She relented. "Pat's taking me shopping for some basics – like clothes. My job was to ask you what size you wore. I think that she thought that the question might get through your unflappable captainly composure, my captain," she added.

And judging from the blush on his cheeks, she had succeeded.

"Well?" she pressed.

"Hmpf! Not being familiar with the sizing, I'll trust in your good judgment, doctor," he replied dryly.

"You may regret that later," she teased.

Picard gave her a measured look, then glanced over his shoulder, waiting for Gy to enter the school. "While you're out Beverly, keep your eyes open for an area that meets the general description of our crash site. I've been tracking the areas where Gy has been working, but they are further east of the river; my best guess, based on what Gy has said and where he found us, is that we were on the west side of the river - but far steeper than it is around here," he added.

"Maybe I can find an area map while we're shopping," Beverly added.

"Excellent. If nothing else, I can check off areas that I visit with Gy," he remarked.

She nodded her agreement, then headed to the school.

Four hours later, Jean-Luc decided that he was no more a painter than he was a carpenter – but at least the paint didn't leave him bruised or cut.

Really, he thought, it shouldn't have been that hard: as the whole room had to be 'primed' – meaning it had to be painted with some sort of undercoating – every surface had to receive a layer of the paint. So why did it taking so damned long? he asked himself. How could one small room have this many surfaces to cover? And why did the paint insist on dripping off the roller and the brushes and leaving drips on the floor, his shirt, his pants – and him?

Gy had come up once between classes to check Jean-Luc's progress, only to take one look, chuckle, and head back down to his students.

Frustrated, Jean-Luc finally coated the last surface, then stepped back to look over his work.

"I think there's more paint on you and the floor than there is on the walls," Beverly murmured from behind him.

"Undoubtedly," he sighed without turning to look at her. "I will, therefore, leave you the honor of putting the next coat up – tomorrow," he said – then turned to face her.

Beverly withheld the chuckle that threatened as she studied his paint-spattered head, then gestured at the pile of bags that now covered the recently exposed floor.

"What have we here?" Picard asked.

"Clothes, linens, towels…" She glanced at him, then smiled. "There's also something called a shower curtain. Give me a few minutes to figure out how to put it up and you can get some of that paint off of you," she added.

She fumbled through the bag for a few minutes, then took the selected items into the newly painted area, leaving Picard to search through the bags.

He followed her a moment later. "I don't think these are my size, Beverly," he informed her.

She turned and saw him holding up a pair of peach-colored lace underpants. Indignantly, she stepped down from the edge of the bathtub strode across the room and tried to wrest them filmy panties from his grasp.

"That bag had my things in it," she said angrily.

"So I gathered. I must admit that there are some things from the twenty-first century of which I do approve," he commented.

"Hmpf!" she replied, snatching them from him and stuffing them back in the bag.

"Is there anything else in there I should see?" he teased.

"No!" she said firmly – then took one of the other bags, opened it to confirm the contents, and thrust it at him. "This one is yours," she said. "Now go get cleaned up!" she added.

Grinning at the usually imperturbable physician, he took the proffered bag and headed into the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him, he opened the bag and examined the contents.

The socks and shirt were self-explanatory; the pants were vaguely reminiscent of the trousers he had worn when they had traveled to nineteenth century San Francisco to rescue Data – albeit, these were a dark blue and the fit seemed somewhat smaller and tighter. The underwear was in no way as interesting as the lace items that he had seen in Beverly's bag; both the shirt and the shorts were generic, white and made of a soft fabric, reminding him of the standard Starfleet-issue garments.

A few more minutes of searching through the bag left him with a towel, several body cleansing products, a razor, deodorant, a toothbrush and toothpaste. Properly armed, he undressed, turned on the shower, and entered the spray.

When he exited the bathroom some time later, he found Beverly seated on the floor, her new purchases spread out before her, neatly organized – but with a clearly troubled expression on her face.

"Beverly?" Picard asked. "What's wrong?

She looked up at him. "This," she said, gesturing at the piles before her. "Getting this makes this all feel… real. Permanent," she added. "Like we're not going home," she explained.

He reached for her hands, pulling her to her feet. Without releasing her hands, he spoke, "We will get home, Beverly. I promise you that. But to do so, we must live here, now. There is no benefit in our wearing the same clothes, day after day, living without the basic necessities that this time and this society dictate.

"I assure you, Beverly, that neither of us will grow so comfortable here that we would forsake our own people and our own time," he added with a forced cheerfulness. "Even if this time does have peach-colored underwear," he added.

She slapped him soundly on the arm, then fumbled through another bag and pulled out a small package of paper. "I found a map of the area," she informed him. "Fortunately Pat didn't ask why I wanted it; I think she was having too much fun picking out things for us to question my one choice," she explained.

Unfolding the paper, she and Jean-Luc were both surprised to see how large of a map it produced – and further surprised by the detail that the map provided.

Spreading it over the floor, they both began to study it. "There," Picard said after a moment, "that seems to be the intersection of Wilson and 25. This building is just west of there…"

"…and just east of the river," Beverly agreed. "Gy said he found us on the bridge near Butterfield…"

They stared at the map for some time, unable to find a bridge with that label – then finally Beverly pointed. "There."

"That says Route 56," Picard countered.

"Yes – but further up the road it also shows 'Butterfield Road'. Maybe it has two names, or a name and a numeric designation. You said that we walked for a time after you pulled me out of the river… Were we walking in the same direction as the river's flow or against it?" she asked.

"With it," he said.

"All right, so that means we fell in somewhere upstream of Butterfield. So that eliminates all of this area," she said, folding under a portion of the map.

"And I'm reasonably confident we landed somewhere on the west side of the river; all of the areas that I've visited on the east side have tended to be very flat and well-populated. If we had been walking in that area, we would have seen house lights or detected power signatures," Picard offered.

Beverly stared at the map for a while. "That still leaves a large area," she pointed out.

"Perhaps there's a topographical map at the library," he said, then glanced at the chronometer… the _clock_, he reminded himself, and calculated the time left before Gy would be finished with his last class. "We've got two hours. Let's see what we can find out about this area – and see what we can find out about this time. There has to be something here that survives until our time – something that we can use to try to get word to Will and the _Enterprise._"

Picard grabbed their coats, then took Beverly's hand and helped her to her feet. He kept her hand as they walked down the stairs and into the studio floor.

"It's Mr. John!" squealed a young voice.

In an instant, a half dozen of the children who Gy had been teaching raced off the floor and gathered around the couple.

"Mr. John! My tooth came out! Wanna see?"

"Wanna see my front kick, Mr. John? It's really high. Watch!"

"Mr. John! Mr. John! Mr. Gy says you're painting your baffroom! Can I help?"

Gy hurriedly moved to the children, trying to quiet them – but before he could do so, Picard had raised his hands, silencing the young voices quickly. "Do we leave the floor without permission?" he asked them with mock severity.

"No, Mr. John," came the repentant reply.

"And do we leave the floor without bowing?"

"No, Mr. John," they murmured.

"Good. Now, Ms. Beverly and I have to run an errand," he said, starting to lead Beverly toward the door.

"But I wanna show you my kick!" came one plaintive cry, verging on tears.

Desperately, Picard looked at Gy, who gave in. "All right, Miss Elizabeth, you may demonstrate your kick. Take the green star," he said.

The little girl promptly ran onto the floor, then ran back, bowed to Gy, then ran back on the floor, took her stance, and threw the kick.

It had a lot of enthusiasm, Picard thought, if not much technique. Still… "Very nice. I hope you'll keep working on it."

"I will!" she cried excitedly.

"What about me?" came another needy voice.

Five minutes later – and a half dozen techniques, and one obligatory look at a missing tooth – Jean-Luc and Beverly managed to make their way out of the school.

Pulling his coat closed against the night's cold, Picard turned to his companion and found her grinning at him.

"You do have a way with children," she chuckled.

"It's like animals; if you have a fear of them, they always search you out," he replied.

She took his arm. "You're not afraid of children, Jean-Luc. You're just not comfortable with them. But clearly they like you."

He shuddered at the possibility. "As long as they are in the do-jahng and I'm upstairs, we'll get along just fine – but it's all the more reason to get home quickly."

"Before you discover that you actually like them?" she teased.

He glared at her, then reached for her hand.

The library was less than a block from the school; warm and well lit, it proved to be well-supplied with information about Batavia and the surrounding area, including the topographical maps they wanted – but nothing on the area maps seemed to yield an area that resembled the steeply sided region where the shuttle had landed.

"Hills?" the librarian had replied when they had finally asked. "There's not much around here except the area leading into the valley – but as you go further north, into Geneva and St. Charles and up into South Elgin, there are a lot of regions that are pretty steep."

"Do you have any maps of that area?"

She shook her head. "No, but I'm sure their libraries do."

Picard turned to Beverly, disappointed. Traveling to another library would require getting Pat or Gy to assist them – and that might mean an explanation.

"You can download them directly," the librarian added.

"Download?" they replied simultaneously.

"Into the library database," she explained. "We have a nice intranet with the area libraries; I can request that they transfer the files… It won't happen tonight, but I should have everything available tomorrow."

A few minutes later, after providing the woman with the information they wanted, the left the library, and Beverly felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

"I have to admit that I didn't know their computers were that sophisticated," she told Jean-Luc as they walked back toward the school.

"Nor I," he admitted. "I'm coming to realize that quite a bit of life in this time is more… civilized than I had expected. I had thought the cars would be more like the ones in my Dixon Hill novels – noisy and belching filthy smoke – the people more crude, the conditions less hygienic…"

"Well, I wouldn't quite put it up to our standards, Jean-Luc," she countered.

"No – but it's not nearly as primitive as my school textbooks suggested."

"Then again, how much of this history was lost during the last world war?" she asked. "The historians didn't have much to work from, if I remember correctly; I suspect a lot was guess work, or piecing together odds and ends to try and make a cohesive whole. After all, who could disagree if they guessed wrong?" she reminded him.

"Perhaps, when we get back, we'll be able to document some of our experiences here – to rewrite some of those book so that this period of history isn't so lost to future generations," he said.

"If we can recharge one of the tricorders, we might be able to document current events while we're here," Beverly suggested.

He looked at her, smiling. "If I didn't know better, Dr. Crusher, I might think you want to stay here a bit longer – all in the name of historical accuracy, of course," he added.

"It's not a matter of historical accuracy," she protested. "It's…" Her voice trailed off.

He stopped, turning to face her as they stood on the walkway over the river. "I understand, Beverly," he said quietly. "It's the same reason that I was determined to document my experiences as Kamin – to make sure that world's culture wasn't completely lost.

"This is not a magnificent culture, but having this opportunity to get to know Gy and Pat makes it real and important – and worthy to be known and remembered by future generations," he said.

She nodded at his words – then turned to stare out over the river.

He moved to her side, worried by her quiet. "Beverly?"

"I was just thinking… when we leave, when we return home, they'll be dead, won't they?" she said.

"They are dead, Beverly; from when we live, they've been dead and gone for centuries," Jean-Luc reminded her, his arm wrapping around her waist.

She turned to him, burying her head against his shoulder. "They don't feel dead, Jean-Luc."

"As your captain, I should tell you not to allow yourself to become emotionally attached; that as officers, we can't allow ourselves to become involved in this world, in these lives," he said quietly.

"But...?" she furthered.

"But… How can I tell you not to feel the compassion that is such a vital part of who you are? How can I tell you deny yourself? How can I order you not to be who you are – when it is that person who I love?" he asked.

"Jean-Luc," she whispered, looking into his eyes.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, then running his gloved thumb over the curve of her cheek. Letting his fingers come to rest under her chin, he held her face as he moved closer, until his lips touched hers.

Beverly moved closer to him, pressing her body closer to his – then pulled back, smiling. "Gy's waiting for us," she reminded him.

He sighed, then moved away. "You're right. But perhaps we can resume this discussion some time… soon."

"I'm looking forward to it," she replied with a smile.


	13. Chapter 13

Jan 16 - part 1

"So what exactly…" Beverly panted, "is a pull-out couch?"

Picard glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Beverly. "Aside from damned heavy," Picard grunted, "I'm not sure. However, I think it's supposed to be a substitute for a bed," he added.

"It seems quite narrow. I don't think we'll both fit on it at the same time," she said seriously.

"Maybe there's another piece. Gy said something about a mattress… We're going to have to tilt this," he interrupted himself.

"Which way?"

"Right… No, _my_ right. Your left. It's too wide to fit through the door…Hold on… A little more…ow! Damn it!"

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"I hit my hand on the doorjamb," he growled.

"Are you all right?" she asked worriedly.

"Yes!" he replied, angry at himself for having hit the door - again.

"Let's take a break Jean-Luc," Beverly said, lowering her side of the sofa that the two were carrying.

A part of him – the frustrated and tired part – didn't want to stop; once the couch was up in the room, they would finally be able to take over residence in that space – and after almost two weeks of living with Pat and Gy, he was aching for a space of his own.

Or rather, partially his own; for the time being – either until Will retrieved them or until they managed to figure out how they could survive in this time - he and Beverly would be sharing their living space.

That possibility – that they might not find a way back to their home – had filled his thoughts for the last few nights.

As much as he hoped they would find a way back, it had already been almost two weeks – and so far, there had been no emergency transports up, no strange visitors searching for them – no indicators in any way, shape or form, that his crew had figured out what had happened.

Or perhaps, he added, they had – to the best of their abilities. After all, a slingshot around the sun that went tragically wrong did not leave evidence; all that Will and the others might know was that their shuttle had entered the orbital program – and didn't emerge.

For all we know, they might have given us up as lost; by now, the memorials would be over, the mourning easing, the grief fading – and their lives would have begun to go on.

Picard smiled to himself, wondering if Will would have gotten the _Enterprise_ as his first command.

Probably not, he knew; if he had been lost while they were on a long mission, Will would have been made temporary captain – a title which might well have become permanent after they returned to Starfleet Command.

But while they were still in such close proximity to Earth? No; Starfleet Command would have recalled the ship and installed an officer who was experienced as a captain. Will might well have been offered a ship in compensation – but not a Galaxy class vessel.

And his crew? If a new captain took over, he would have probably brought along a fair number of his own people, ousting more than a few of those whom Picard had come to regard as family. Worf, always loyal to the man, would have left, maybe to stay with Riker. Deanna would have gone as well… Good thing, too, he thought; considering their obvious affection for one another, a new assignment might give Will and Deanna the chance to explore a serious relationship at long last. Geordi would have stayed with the ship, he expected – unless someone from Utopia Planitia offered him something more interesting.

Data? Now there was a good question. Picard decided that his android friend would probably have taken the opportunity to leave the ship and set out on a different path. Sciences? Teaching? Maybe Q might have hit the mark in seeing him at Oxford, he mused.

Which leaves… us, he mused, glancing at Beverly as she slumped into the couch; following her lead, he joined her.

What about us? he asked himself. Yes, we're here together, two companions out of time, with no one else to turn to, no one else who could understand us – but that wasn't a basis for a relationship, he had reminded himself.

After that night on the bridge, after that lovely kiss with Beverly, he had realized that while he loved Beverly, her feelings – and indeed, his – might be borne more from their situation than from their genuine and mutual passions. As much as he would have liked to pursued their romance, he knew that it wasn't fair to either of them – not while their future was so far in doubt.

It hadn't been a completely arbitrary decision, either, he reminded himself. Despite her apparent interest in the kiss, she had made no further efforts to repeat the moment, he thought – though to be fair, they had been working hard almost every moment since then – either working, researching the area for a possible crash location of the shuttle, trying to identify historic points in this time that would allow them to relay a message to Will, or cleaning the school and their future home.

Future, no longer, he amended; once we get this couch upstairs, it is supposed to provide us with a bed – which means we no longer need to return to Gy and Pat's home.

He sighed as that thought registered.

"Penny?" Beverly asked, hearing the soft sound.

Startled, Picard turned to his companion, then shook his head. "Nothing."

"The Jean-Luc Picard I know is not given to plaintive sighs," she reminded him. Reaching for his hand, she squeezed it gently. "Give."

He squeezed her hand back – then released it, turning slightly so that he could face her as he spoke. "It's nothing, really. It's just… Now that we're not living with Pat and Gy, he no longer has to pretend that he needs me working with him. I've known since the first day that I'm not manual labor material, but…"

"But being given room and board in exchange for just living here seems to be a bit of a handout," she finished.

He nodded.

There was a time, not that long ago, when he would have danced around the issue – but here, now, Beverly was his only confidante – and he owed her, and himself, as close to the truth as possible.

"It's been brought to my attention that starship captains don't have what they call 'marketable skills' in this time. What skills I do have won't translate into a position that I could hold without a work history and the credentials to hold a job," he said.

"When we find the shuttle we can replicate them…"

"If we find the shuttle," he countered.

"And who's being negative now?" she goaded him – then reached for his hand once more. "You've been my rock for the last few weeks, Jean-Luc; you've kept me going when I lost hope; you've reassured me when I was ready to give up. So don't you give up now," she said.

"I'm not giving up – but I am trying to be honest about my situation here." He turned a little more, facing her dead on. "Beverly, there's something about me that I've known for some time – something that I'm not overly proud of."

She looked at him, concerned. "What is it, Jean-Luc?"

"There have been two times in my life when I came to the realization that things were not going to work out the way I wanted them to – and when I came to that realization, I yielded. I gave in," he admitted quietly.

"That's not a crime, Jean-Luc," she replied quietly.

"No, but it's not what a Starfleet officer is trained to do. We are supposed to persevere, not capitulate," he said. "But… I didn't."

"I'm sure you had your reasons."

"Perhaps – but perhaps I simply found myself unable to fight them anymore. With Eline… I think after several years on Kataan, I finally accepted that I was not going to be rescued, that the life I was being shown was the only life I was going to have. I yielded to that despair."

She tightened her hold on his hand. "Perhaps in that moment that you made the decision, it was because of your despair, but that decision also led to the beginning of your family there – and you can't tell me that you regret the life you had with them."

"No," he admitted, shaking his head, smiling softly at the memory of the days he had spent with his wife, his children, his grandson. "I don't regret it – but the moment of resignation to that life meant turning my back on any hope of returning home."

"And the second time…?"

"The second time?" he repeated.

"That you resigned yourself to the situation," she reminded him.

"Oh, that. It wasn't anything… We really should get this couch upstairs if we're going to go to the library," he said, starting to rise.

Beverly tugged on his hand, pulling him back. "It's Sunday morning, Jean-Luc; the library doesn't open for hours." She affixed him with a hard look. "What aren't you telling me?"

He hesitated, then shook his head. "Don't ask me, Beverly. Just let it suffice to say that I made a decision that I don't regret. But my point," he continued, changing the topic, "is that we may come to a time when we have to consider the possibility we aren't going home.

"The fact that I don't have a position here does mean that I'll be able to spend more time researching the possible areas where we might have crashed, as well as researching what documents we'll need if we are going to do more than live on the handouts of these kind people – but what if we _don't_ find a way to get back?" he asked her soberly. "We need to consider how we're going to survive here – without disturbing the timeline," he added.

"As much as I don't want to think about that possibility, I think it makes it all the more important that we find the shuttle," she said. "Let's get this couch upstairs – then I think we should take a walk and give ourselves a little break from being in here - and thinking about how we're going to get home."

As they started to tip the sofa back onto its side, a bang from the downstairs door announced that arrival of a visitor. Placing the couch back onto the ground, they moved toward the main doors of the school – then smiled as Gy bounded in, a somewhat breathless Pat following a moment later.

"Sorry to burst in," Gy announced, holding up a large blue bag, "but I finally found the air mattress! It'll be a fuck of a lot more comfortable than the old mattress on that thing!" he informed the two.

It might be more comfortable, Beverly thought – but how the devil did he expect them to both sleep on the narrow surface?

"Let me help you get this upstairs, John, then I can get the pump charging so you can fill up the mattress before bedtime," he added. Handing the bag to Beverly, he pulled off hat and coat, threw them onto the chairs that lined the near wall of the school, and stepped over to the couch. "You take the back, and I'll go backwards up the stairs," he told Picard, then squatted down at one side of the couch. "On three… one, two and three!"

The two picked up the couch, tipped it back, then began to maneuver the massive piece of furniture through the narrow doorway – and, Beverly decided, judging from Gy's steady stream of profanity, up the narrow stairs that led to their apartment.

"Go on up, dear," Pat said to Beverly, "otherwise they'll put it God knows where. I'll be up in a minute," she added, somewhat breathlessly.

The doctor looked at the heavy-set woman worriedly. "Are you all right?"

"No. I'm a hundred pounds overweight and I haven't worked out in almost a year," Pat laughed. "Climbing those stairs takes a lot out of me. But aside from that, yes, I'm fine – or I will be, once I catch my breath. Don't worry, dear – I'll join you in a minute."

Beverly frowned her concern at the woman, who dismissed the worry with a wave of her hand. "Go on," she insisted.

The blue bag in her hand, Beverly quickly turned to follow the men up the staircase – but once she entered the room, she glanced out of one of the two windows that overlooked the do-jahng floor. To her relief, she saw Pat push herself up from the chair and begin to make her way toward the back hall.

Turning her attention to the two men, she nodded her agreement with their tentative location of the couch, against the back wall, near the two small heating vents.

Two small tables – more indulgences from Pat – were quickly set into place on either side of the couch, a small lamp on either side, and one table graced with a small clock – an _alarm_ clock, Beverly reminded herself.

So far, that had not been a necessity; both she and Jean-Luc had quickly fallen into the habit of waking early in the busy Edrickson household – but living on their own, as they were now, might make oversleeping a real possibility – hence, another gift from Pat.

Of course, the woman had chuckled, it wasn't overly necessary, as Beverly was now less than a minute's walk from the coffee shop. She had then made a pointed remark as to how Beverly and John could spend those extra minutes in the morning – though how exactly they were supposed to do that on the narrow couch was beyond Beverly's understanding.

And not that Jean-Luc had made any more moves in that area, she added a little sadly. The kiss on the bridge had been... lovely. She had always known Jean-Luc was a marvelous kisser, the kind that made her knees go weak - so weak that she would have been more than willing to let herself fall to the floor - and pull him down on top of her.

She suspected that he had felt the same way, given the look on his face as they had pulled apart that night - and that, she decided, was probably exactly why he had done nothing to promote their relationship. A few more kisses like that one - and they would be using that bed, regardless of how narrow it was - and needing that alarm clock to boot.

And Sundays would definitely not be spent at the library, she added firmly.

And, most likely, the search for the shuttlecraft would be put aside - all of which inferred that they would be making an emotional commitment to staying here, to putting their personal relationship ahead of their desire to go home, she knew.

It wasn't, of course, as if they couldn't do both - be lovers _and_ find a way home; after all, how many times had they both had dozens of projects and missions working at one time - and yet managed to accomplish them all? she asked herself.

But this was different, she added; this mission - getting home - had to be their top priority, above everything, included their feelings for one another.

That didn't mean she had to like it.

As she ruminated on their circumstances, she half watched as Gy opened the bag, pulled out a small device and plugged it into a wall outlet.

"Let that charge for at least a few hours," he was instructing Picard, "then all you do is attach it to the port on the mattress, and when you twist it to lock it on, it will start to run. The last time I used the mattress it held up fine, but you might need to top it off every night," he added.

Picard nodded as if he understood, though Beverly could tell that he wasn't entirely comfortable with the explanation. Undoubtedly he would understand once he saw the components, she knew equally well, but she was always amused by his initial resistance to letting others know he didn't understand something.

Ego? She asked herself - then dismissed the possibility. When it was important - in the middle of negotiations or when a critical decision needed to be made - he never let his personal issues interfere with getting results.

But this wasn't critical, she reminded herself; these were two people who had generously given of themselves to save their lives - and to help them survive in this ancient world.

And two people he had not yet found a way to repay for those acts of generosity, she realized.

It wasn't ego, per se, she thought; in his mind's eye, he already saw himself as embarrassed before them. He was lost, deserted, unable to support himself, unfit for the work that Gy could give him, and unable to get a job doing what he was most capable of performing: he was, she realized, humiliated.

And not about to further humiliate himself by admitting he wasn't entirely sure about what Gy was saying, especially when it was probably something that he would be able to figure out on his own.

Oblivious to his discomfort - or more likely, she thought, unaware of it - Pat offered, "I picked up some flannel sheets and pillowcases. You're going to want something warm between you and the plastic mattress," she informed them. "I brought a few extra blankets from the house as well. It's warm out today, but you know what they say about the weather in Chicago," she added.

Beverly frowned. What about the weather in Chicago? she wondered. Could it possible get worse than that blizzard? "No," she admitted to the woman.

Pat smiled. "If you don't like the weather here, wait five minutes; it'll change," she chuckled. "All right, ducks, Gy's got a date at Corrie's and Ralph and I are heading to Long Grove. I'll stop by on my way home and see if you need anything... Oh, and here's your pay, Beverly," she added, handing Beverly a white envelope that she pulled from her bag. "I thought you and John might want to celebrate your first night of freedom with a dinner out."

Beverly took the envelope uncomfortably, still awkward with the thought of being paid for what she did, especially in light of everything that Pat and Gy were doing for them - but this society ran on money.

"So what do you two have planned for today?" she asked.

"A trip to the library," Jean-Luc quietly.

"I was hoping to take a walk up the river path," Beverly added. "I can't believe that it's only been two weeks since that blizzard, but almost all the snow has melted, and I'd like to get out and enjoy some fresh air."

"I think we've all got similar ideas," Gy chuckled. "Mom and Ralph and Long Grove, Cor and I are going to the arboretum... It's cabin fever, you know. Well, we'll see you later! Have fun!"

Beverly smiled, watching as the two traipsed down the staircase, then let the smile fade as she listened to Pat's heavy footfalls and forced breaths.

"You can't change anything here, Beverly," Picard warned her, recognizing her expression as one of professional - and personal, he knew - concern.

"I know - but helping Pat might not change anything. If we can access the history records from the shuttlecraft..." she said, still staring at the now deserted staircase.

He reached for her arm, turning her to face him. "Beverly, whatever Pat's future is supposed to be, we can't change it. Even the smallest of changes could affect the future..."

"And what if we find out that she dies in the first wave of the attacks on the United States I ?" she asked. "Why not help her now, so that she can enjoy what time she has left?" she pressed.

"The Temporal Prime Directive..."

"Damn the Prime Directive!" she snapped back. "How can you let her suffer when there's something we could do to help her?"

"I can do it, because that was what already happened. I don't like it..." he added, only to be cut off.

"Then do something about it! Jean-Luc," she continued, her voice dropping, "as much as I loathe the Prime Directive, at least I can understand how interceding in the affairs of a primitive culture could affect their development. But the idea that anything we could do here could really affect the future is ludicrous. We're just two people - just as Pat is little more than shopkeeper and Gy's a teacher; what we do to help them will be meaningless in the grand scheme of things," she rationalized.

"And if it turns out that Pat - or Gy - does have a major effect on the future? Then what? No, Beverly, we can't take that risk," he reminded her.

She frowned, disappointed in the man. "Can't - or simply won't? You took plenty of risks when you were in the center seat, Jean-Luc; you even violated the Prime Directive when you thought it appropriate - or when it best fit your ideas of right and wrong. Why is it that my values are less valid than yours?" she pressed.

"Because I am the captain!" he snapped. "I make the decisions – and I accept the consequences! It's my duty and my responsibility…"

"Damn it, Jean-Luc! This isn't the _Enterprise_; you're not the captain here – and I'm not the CMO. And our first duty here is to survive – and then to try and get back home! But if we can't, I'm not going to be tied down by some arbitrary rules that no longer apply – or to answer to you blindly just because you _were_ my commanding officer!" she raged,

Pulling away, she went to the closet, grabbed her coat and started to put it on.

"Where are you going?"

"Out!" she snapped.

"Beverly..." he sighed in frustration.

She raised her hands, stopping him before he could say anything further. "No. Don't say it. Don't say anything. We've spent the last two weeks without any time to be on our own, to be alone - and I think we need a break from each other. I just need to spend some time alone. I'll be back... later," she added, then hurriedly headed down the steps.

A moment later, he heard the front door of the school bang shut, and moments after that, the slam of the main doors leading to the street.

Frustrated and lost, he stood alone in the empty apartment.


	14. Chapter 14

January 16, 2011

He stared down at the open map books, facing the page spread open before him - but seeing nothing.

She was right, he thought. But so am I.

We simply can't allow ourselves to interfere in this timeline, or our own future might be gone.

But would allowing Beverly to try to help Pat really change anything? It wasn't as if Beverly could exact a miracle cure; what few medications were in her bag were limited in their use - and without the tricorder at full capability, she wouldn't be able to properly diagnosis her in any case. But to help her with diet, a change in her lifestyle... What harm could there be? he asked himself.

He knew the answer - or rather, he sighed, he didn't know the answer. What role Pat and Gy would play on future generations was simply an unknown that even access to the shuttle's computers would not answer for them, and while it was probably infinitesimal, they simply could not allow themselves even that small risk.

Could they?

Yet if we don't do something, how much of our own humanity do we sacrifice by standing by, doing nothing? If Gy had simply stood by, Beverly and I would have died that first day, he reminded himself. We owe them both this...

Justification, he snapped at himself. Rationalization. Justify this one exception, this time - and next time, you'll find another reason to justify it again.

I can't do that!

But I already have, he reminded himself. I've violated the Prime Directive whenever I felt that it didn't serve the greater good - whenever my conscience, my sense of right and wrong, was violated by that strict and arbitrary rule.

When I felt _my_ humanity was imperiled.

How then do I deny Beverly the same thing?

He bowed over the book, burying his head in his hands and sighed again.

A moment he felt a cool touch at the back of his neck; suspecting it was the librarian wondering if another of her elderly patrons had drifted off in the warm sunlight of this hidden corner. Glancing up, he began to smile reassuringly at the young woman - then realized who was standing before him.

"Beverly!"

Hurriedly pushing back the chair, he rose, pulling her into his arms without thinking, holding her close - then realizing how awkward the moment was, pulled back - only to have her pull him close once again, and kiss him soundly.

He stiffened for a moment - then yielded to her embrace.

For a moment.

At the soft tittering from the opposite side of the room, he gently pushed her back, then gestured at the chair beside him as he, too sat down once more.

Taking her hand in his, he tightened his grasp on them, savoring the warmth of her touch - then realized it was anything but warm.

"Your hands are freezing," he said, wrapping the paid between his own, larger hands, chafing them gently.

"It's sunny - but it's still only January," she reminded him.

Her pink cheeks reminded him of that truth. Reaching up, he gently caressed the angle of her face with his thumb - then found himself yielding to temptation once more.

The kiss was shorter this time, but no less sweet for its brevity.

"I'm sorry," he said as he pulled away.

"No. I'm sorry," she said, lowering her head. "I was... well, not _wrong,_" she managed, "but I was being insensitive. As hard as it is for me to be reduced to being a glorified waitress, it's got to be harder still for you. You were a ship's captain in our time; here you're... nothing."

He gave a grunt of disapproval. "Thank you for reminding me," he growled.

She laughed softly, raising her eye to his once again. "Sorry - but you know what I mean - and I think I can understand a little of what you're feeling. You're used to having everyone depend on you; suddenly, you're dependent on everyone else. It can't be easy."

He drew a deep breath, ready to deny the obvious truth - then nodded. "It's a challenge I had not thought I would confront for many years. There's a bit of an attitude in this time - that the older members of society are less capable, less independent - that we need to be catered to and coddled. It's patronizing... but then again, I think I was treating you in a similar manner," he admitted. "Your concerns about Pat are legitimate..."

"As are you concerns about the timeline," she conceded. "But I have to try to help her," she insisted.

"I know. As your captain, I can't condone the risk - but, as you pointed out, here, now... I'm not your captain. You're going to have to do what you think is right - but I would like to have a home to go to one day," he added.

"Me, too," she sighed. "And in the end, it may make no difference, whatsoever," she added. "Jean-Luc, it's so hard to think of this all being gone in just a few years," she said quietly.

"And yet from the losses this world will suffer in the third World War will come warp flight, First Contact with the Vulcans, the alliances with the Andorians, the Federation..."

"I know. I just wish there was a better way," Beverly sighed.

"As do I," he commiserated, drawing her close once again, savoring this one link to his own world - and regretting that they could do nothing to keep the tragedies that this world was going to face in the near future from happening.

After a moment, he released her and smiled. "I may have some good news, however - at least for us," he added.

"Oh?"

Turning toward the desk, he gestured to the open map. "When we were looking at these, we were focused on finding a higher elevation - something that resembled the 'mountainous' area we thought we had landed in."

"Except there's nothing here," she reminded him.

"No - and yes," he said, a genuine smile lighting his face for the first time that day. "There's nothing that could be considered 'mountainous' - but in several areas, the terrain is extremely steep. Look here," he said pointing to the map. "Route 31 pulls away from the river - by more than a mile. According to Catherine..."

"Catherine?" Beverly asked with a smile.

"The librarian," he replied.

"You're on a first name basis?" she teased. "Getting close to the young ladies of this time period?"

"Beverly," he said patiently, "she's young - young enough to be my granddaughter - and she treats me like her doddering old ancestor, bringing me tea and cookies."

"Earl Grey?" Beverly pressed.

He frowned, not seeing her point. "Well, yes, but..."

"And those ginger biscuits you like so much?" she added.

"Yes..."

She grinned. "I don't know how to tell you this, Jean-Luc, but she's not patronizing her old 'grandfather' - she's trying to attract him."

"Beverly..." he replied scornfully.

"Jean-Luc, they don't have Earl Grey in the library coffee shop - we both know that. Add to that the fact that I saw her at Pat's the other day picking up a tin of the stuff - and a package of those biscuits," she added.

"She's just being polite," he rebutted.

Beverly grinned. "She looks at you like you're lunch, Jean-Luc - and she looks at me like I'm in her way," she said firmly. "Look, you may feel old and unappreciated and not of value here - but you're still damned good-looking, and she's as aware of it as I am."

He harrumphed quietly. "I think you're misreading the situation," he grumbled.

"And I think you're being naïve," she countered.

Picard considered that for a moment - then looked at Beverly. "So you think I'm good-looking?" he asked.

She smiled back. "And sexy as hell. And when we get back, I intend to make sure you know that."

He drew himself upright. "Then, by all means, let us get home. Now, as I was saying, we've been looking for a high elevation - when what we should have been looking at is terrain. This area here, between Route 31 and the river is severely eroded - that's why the road was moved back decades ago. They were able to reforest the area, and the trees have limited the erosion since then - but the ground is still very steep. Furthermore, they created berms to break the flow of water, and these run almost parallel to the river, slowing the speed of any run-off. I think that we may have been led down to one of these passages, which we followed until if finally reached this area," he pointed to a large fen. "From there we walked along the riverbank until..."

"Until I fell in," she said.

He nodded. "I can't tell exactly where that was - but I think it was here, just below this dam. That was probably the noise we heard. The river carried us downstream for a distance - probably just past the bridge. I remember being able to touch bottom at several points, and the water here is quite shallow. There are several points between the Wilson Street bridge and where Gy found us where we could have gotten out," he concluded.

Beverly looked at him soberly. "Jean-Luc, _we_ didn't get out. You got us out. You saved my life."

"As you have saved mine before, Beverly," he reminded her. "And I almost got us both killed," he added. "If I hadn't decided to do that damned slingshot maneuver..."

"Don't blame yourself," she interrupted. "You knew what you were doing. If the Ferengi - or whoever it was - hadn't decided to use that area to capture unmanned ships, we would be on the _Enterprise_ now, off on some mission," she reminded him.

"Then you believe that the vortex was caused intentionally?" he asked.

"I do. Not to capture us, of course - that would be getting the Ferengi in over their heads - and there was no way anyone would have known we'd be taking that ship or that route on that day. But... I _have_ to believe the vortex wasn't a natural phenomenon, because if it wasn't natural, then there might be sort of temporal signature remaining in the area - and Will will find it - and then find us," she insisted. "In the meantime, though, we need to get here," she said, pointing to the area of the map he had indicated.

"It's about nine kilometers north of here," he informed her.

"Then we'll have to head out early next Sunday. For now though... Can I buy you dinner, handsome?" she asked laughingly. "I know a quiet spot not too far from here..."


	15. Chapter 15

January 29

Pat looked up from the cash register as the bell on the door of the shop rang, then smiled in recognition.

"Beverly! It's Saturday. You have today off, you know," she teased the woman.

"I thought you did, too," Beverly replied, concerned. "Don't tell me Chrissie didn't show up," she continued.

"Uh-uh," Pat replied. "She's taking out the garbage - and before you ask, Teague is cleaning up the back room. They'll both be back up in a minute or two."

Beverly nodded, but her expression made it clear that she was waiting for the rest of the explanation for the woman's appearance at the shop on this Saturday morning.

Despite Jean-Luc's concerns about the timeline, he had finally - grudgingly - conceded that Beverly's talking to Pat about her health was, at best, a minimal risk to their timeline - a risk that was further minimized when Beverly learned that Ralph was already encouraging her along that same path. Still, she had sat their benefactress down and discussed her eating habits, physical activity, her stress level and had come to an agreement with the woman about what she could and should do to slowly work herself into a better state of health.

And part of that agreement was for Pat to not come in or her days off - a bad habit which she apparently had not yet shed, Beverly decided.

"Oh, don't you give me that look, missy," Pat said as she saw Beverly's expression. "The only reason I'm here is because Ralph wanted to take a couple of those oat bars with on our walk this morning," she explained, lifting a small bag as evidence.

Seeing Beverly's face redden in embarrassment, Pat added, "But I thank you for being so worried, dearie. It's not necessary: I'm following your advice - and Ralph's. We're going up to the Prairie Path for a walk - while we can," she added.

Beverly gave her a perplexed look. "While you can?"

Pat smiled. "It's Chicago - remember. It's thirty degrees out there today - but it's supposed to drop to 10 below by tonight. I'd tell you to keep warm tonight, but I think John would prefer to take care of that for me - now wouldn't he?" she teased.

The hint of pink on Beverly's cheeks flamed into a full blush. "Pat, we're not... I mean..."

"I know," Pat sighed, crestfallen. "You're just friends. Why you two just don't bite the bullet and admit to each other how you feel is beyond me."

Beverly shook her head. "It's... complicated."

"Honey, it's _always_ complicated - until you realize that it isn't. But I'll shut up about it..."

_I doubt that_, Beverly thought to herself.

"...for now," Pat added with a mischievous grin. "Of course, Valentine's Day is only two weeks away..."

"Valentine's Day?" Beverly repeated, confused. "That's not until February," she reminded Pat.

"Bev," Pat sighed, "February starts in three days. You've been here a month."

A month? Beverly gaped to herself. That wasn't possible! It couldn't have been more than a few days - a week or two at most...

But glancing out the now-familiar front window of the store, staring across the quiet street at the front door of the school that had become their home, she realized the woman was right. They had been here a month.

And they were still here.

Seeing the pained expression on Beverly's face, Pat quickly came out from behind the counter and took Beverly's hand. Leading her to one of the seats by the window, the two sat down and Pat faced Beverly, her eyes filled with compassion and worry. "Tell me about it, Beverly. Tell me how I can help you and John. I don't know what your trouble is - but no one can help you if you don't let us know what you need.

"And it's not just me - everyone here loves you - and all of Gy's students love John. Whatever it is, we can help!" she insisted.

Beverly smiled, then looked down, shaking her head. _Not with this,_ she thought; _no one can help - and even if they could, we can't ask._

"If it's a government thing - well, Peter's friends with Congressman Valdes," she continued. "He's got connections..."

"It's not the government," Beverly interrupted. "And... I appreciate what you're saying, but you can't help with this. John and I have to work this out for ourselves," she insisted.

Pat frowned. "All right - but if you change your minds, you let us know - and know that you can stay here - at the shop and at the school - for as long as you want."

"Pat, we can't impose on your hospitality..."

"Hospitality! Hospitality!" Pat chortled raucously. "Beverly, you have more than earned your keep here at the shop! We've almost doubled our numbers from last year. The customers love you - and ever since you and John moved into the school, Cor's friends have backed off on those threats about breaking in... Maybe she'll wise up and dump them - or maybe Gy will do the same to her. But without the two of you there, Gy wouldn't really have a choice," she reminded Beverly. "If for nothing more than that, I am eternally grateful to you both."

The physician nodded, happy to know they weren't a complete burden on Gy and Pat, but even so... "Pat, I'm thankful for the work - but..."

"But... Oh, Lord, don't tell me John's got his knickers in a knot because he's being supported by a woman!" she groaned. "You're disappointing me Beverly. I never took John for a chauvinist."

"What?" Beverly replied, then quickly shook her head. "No, no - it's not that. Well, it's not that, per se - but John's always been responsible for his share of the work."

"He helps out with the school," Pat interjected.

"He does some maintenance and cleans every now and then - maybe a few hours a week. He helps Gy every now and then - but it's not the same as the work that he's used to doing," Beverly reminded her. "He's feeling a bit... useless."

Pat frowned again. "Oh, my. I'm afraid I don't have a ready answer for that."

"I don't think he wants a ready answer, Pat," Beverly replied. "I think he just needs to feel useful."

"Don't we all, love?" Pat replied, patting her hand. "Let me see what I can think of. There's a few people in town who might have some work for him..." She thought for a moment - then glanced back at Beverly. "But you didn't come here to tell me your woes, now did you?" she realized. "So tell me why you stopped in on your supposed morning off?"

Beverly smiled. "John and I are going for a walk on the trail this morning..."

"And you wanted some hot tea for the trip?" Pat guessed.

"We expect to be out for the day - and last time we got pretty cold," she admitted. "John thought taking some tea would help keep us warm."

"Not as warm as if you two had better clothes! I wish you'd let me buy you both something warmer,," Pat sighed.

"Thank you, but what we have is fine," Beverly objected. Despite being soaked in the river, their replicated winter weather gear was still far better insulation against the weather than the clothes Pat had tried to purchase for them.

"Fine," Pat replied. "But you're not going to stop me when spring gets here!" she proclaimed. "Come the beginning of April, you and I are going to do some serious shopping - and we're not stopping at one pair of jeans and two shirts!" she insisted.

_I'm hoping that when spring gets here,_ Beverly thought, _that we're long gone._ She would miss the woman and her son - and indeed, this little town - but the longer they were gone, the more she found herself aching to go home. But she smiled back at Pat as if conceding the point.

Rising from the table, Pat moved to the back room, emerging a moment later with two silver thermal containers. Handing one to Beverly, she said, "You make with tea for John, and I'll get you some coffee," she said.

As Beverly brewed the tea, she heard Pat shuffling around the front of the store; returning to the kitchen area, she presented Beverly with the container - and a white bag. "A snack for you two," she said. "And I've got some ragu and fresh linguine in the fridge for your dinner," she added. "Just reheat the sauce, and cook the pasta until it's just _al dente_ - maybe two minutes? Kasha made it fresh yesterday," she added.

Beverly smiled. While she and Jean-Luc still had breakfast and lunch at the store every day, dinner - which was almost always made by Pat and sent back with Beverly at the end of the day - required being reheated in their small microwave oven - which, despite the similarity in appearances, was most definitely not a replicator.

The week before, however, Pat had decided that Beverly was both capable and trustworthy enough to be entrusted with the keys to the coffee shop - and to opening it five days a week. She had also made sure that the two also understood that they could now prepare their own dinners and weekend meals using the store's kitchen. It hadn't, however, stopped Pat from cooking for them at least a few times each week - as she had clearly done last night. Still, it had become a nightly ritual; as Gy began his classes at the school, she and Jean-Luc would return to the shop to prepare their dinner - with its fair share of mis-steps in the kitchen as they each tried to remember the art of cooking - followed by a quiet meal at one of the small tables in the meeting rooms, then by a walk along the river, returning in time to join Gy and the last of his lingering students in a brief discussion before locking the doors behind them and heading to their bed.

The bed, she chuckled to herself, remembering that night. After what was almost a romantic dinner at a small restaurant across the street from the school, they had spent the following hour fighting with the couch, trying to determine how they were supposed to turn the couch into a bed - only to discover they need only pull on the two handles concealed beneath the cushions, and a bed would open out.

The air mattress had proved itself essential, providing a buffer between the thin mattress that was concealed in the bed and their bodies - but it was a far cry from the comfortable and supportive beds they had grown accustomed to in their own time.

But nestling near Jean-Luc's warmth during the long cold nights had more than made up for it, she added. Well, almost made up for it, she added; despite their close proximity, they had tacitly agreed to each of them using half of the blankets that Pat had given them, wrapping themselves up, cocoon-style, unable to accidentally - or deliberately - brush against one another at night. It had delineated the boundaries of their relationship - but sleeping so close to the man she loved and yet denying herself the freedom to physically display those feelings was becoming quite frustrating.

She suspected Jean-Luc was of a similar opinion; when he had asked her to procure the tea for their walk this morning, she guessed he might have been in need of a few extra minutes of uninterrupted time in the shower this morning.

Not that he needed to resort to taking care of matters himself, she sighed; she would have been more than happy to assist him - if he would assist her - but while their relationship as friends was clearly blossoming, aside from the frequent hand-holding and less-frequent kisses, it wasn't turning into passionate affair that were the root of most of her fantasies.

Still, as she packed the containers and the bag of snacks into her backpack, she couldn't help but feel a strange and delightful thrill as she saw the door to the school open and watched as Jean-Luc crossed the street.

"Now that is one hunk of handsome," Pat sighed - then smiled and waved at Picard as he reached the sidewalk in front of the coffeeshop. She looked at Beverly. "Tell me again why you two are taking a long cold walk along the river when you could be in a nice warm bed doing the horizontal bop all day," she said.

_Good question,_ Beverly thought - then smiled as Jean-Luc entered the shop.

His eyes met hers - and even without the kiss, she felt her knees weaken.

"Good morning, Beverly," he said, his baritone voice sending shivers down her spine.

_Maybe I'm the one who should have taken the extra ten minutes in the shower,_ she mused, then decided, _except ten minutes wouldn't have been nearly enough._

"Good morning, Jean-Luc," she purred back.

The two stared at one another until Pat cleared her throat.

"Good morning, Pat," Picard added hastily, turning to greet their hostess. "I thought you were off today," he added.

"Just getting a snack for mywalk with Ralph. Well, you two have fun on your walk. I'll see you Monday, Beverly... maybe," she added with a wink as she left the building.

Picard stared at Beverly. "What does that mean?"

"You know what that means," Beverly countered. "Pat's after me about us - again. If we're lucky, she'll be too tired from this walk to think to mention it the next time we see her."

"One can hope," Picard agreed - then turned his full attention to Beverly. "You look lovely this morning," he said.

"Starfleet winter gear always brings out the best in my coloring," she replied.

"Regardless - you look lovely," he repeated, taking her hand in his.

Blushing, she replied, "Thank you," then awkwardly removed her hand from his and nodded toward the door. "Ready?"

"Let's go," he agreed.


	16. Chapter 16

January 29 - part 2

A bitterly cold wind brushed over Jean-Luc as he stood on the path, edging its way beneath the hood of his parka. Another man might have shivered as the cold air nipped at his head, but the Starfleet captain's attention was firmly locked on distant tree line, and nothing, not even the damnably cold weather, was going to distract him.

"Anything?"

That voice, however, could tear him away from anything, anytime. Lowering the binoculars he had borrowed from Gy, he looked at his companion and shook his head disappointedly.

"Nothing," he admitted. "We should have come out last weekend, when there was still snow on the trees; we might have been able to see the path the shuttle took. Given the angle the ship was on when we came to, I think we must have grazed against the tree tops before we landed. In theory, there should have been a clear line of our entry - and our landing."

Beverly gave a sigh. "Perhaps it's as well that the snow has melted away. We might not be able to spot the shuttle - but neither will anyone else," she reminded him.

"Yet," he countered. "From what Gy says, the preserves and fens in this area are quite popular during the summer - as is the river. If there was a visible indicator of the shuttle's path, someone might decide to investigate," he reminded her. "And if they do find the shuttle before we do..."

"Then the timeline will be changed," she agreed. "But even if we do find it, Jean-Luc, we're going to have to find a way to get rid of it before someone else discovers it, Jean-Luc - or the outcome will be the same."

"Agreed, Doctor, so let's go on. According to this map..." he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, studied it for a moment, then pointed, "there should be another vantage point about two kilometers further north. If we don't see something there, we're going to have to consider that we landed further away from the river," he said.

"I have my doubts that we were even this far away," she replied. "Today, in bright sunlight and good conditions, it's taken us almost four hours to go this far; I don't think we walked that far after the crash."

"Agreed - but the river flows very quickly in some areas, Beverly," he answered. "We could have been carried further downstream than we thought."

She nodded her agreement, but as she reached for the field glasses, Picard could see the fatigue in her red-tinged cheeks. "Why don't we get out of the wind, Beverly," he suggested, "and have the last of that tea?"

"It will have cooled off by now," she replied, "but I could definitely use the rest. Up there?" she pointed.

He followed her finger to a point where the path worked itself back into the trees; there were no benches or chairs as there had been closer to the towns that dotted the river bank, but even from where he stood, he could see that the trees and bushes were standing still, sheltered from the wind.

Picking up the pack, he slung it over his shoulder, looped the binocular strap over his neck - and reached for her hand. Taking it, they walked in silence until they reached the trees, then found an old stump that would serve as a temporary seat for them both.

As he watched, Beverly pulled her legs in close to her body, wrapping her arms around them as he opened the container and poured out the last of the tea. Proffering it to her, she took a hearty swallow, then handed it back to him, letting him finish the last of the liquid.

"There's some of the coffee left," he offered.

"Thanks, but..." she hesitated. "Coffee is a diuretic - and I haven't seen any lavatories out here," she reminded him with a smile.

Picard chuckled. "No - but if you're in need, I can always turn my back," he suggested.

"Modesty is the least of my concerns," she retorted. "If you have to go, there's not a big problem of exposed flesh - but I have to drop my pants. I'd rather not have to explain to Pat how I managed to get frostbite on my posterior! Regardless of the real story, she'd make one up for herself - and I can only imagine how creative she would be."

He chuckled again. "Point taken. I do believe, however, that there was a restaurant back in St. Charles; if we turn around now we'd be back there within the hour - if you're getting desperate," he added.

She shook her head. "Not yet - but I'm not going to drink anything else until we're closer to home," she chuckled.

"Let's just go to that next point - and if we don't see anything, we'll turn back, and try again tomorrow," he suggested.

"I'm game – but don't forget the temperature is supposed to drop to well below zero tonight," she reminded him.

"Scared of a little cold?" he teased.

"I'm not the one who took the extra blanket the other night," Beverly countered.

Picard reddened. "I'm sorry! I didn't realize…" he began.

"It's all right," she interrupted, "but I'm buying an extra blanket with our next paycheck," she said.

Four blankets, she thought. It would have been simpler if they had shared the three that they had – but the two had an unspoken agreement about the bed; Beverly wrapped herself up in one blanket on her side of the bed, Jean-Luc took the other, while the third covered them both. Thus cocooned, there was no possibility of either of them acting on their feelings toward one another in the midst of their dreams – an arrangement that had suited them both – until the previous night.

Picard frowned. He didn't know what blankets cost, but he suspected it might be a greater portion of Beverly's salary than they could afford.

He hesitated for a moment, then capped the tea container, slid it back in the pack, carefully packing the field glasses as well before slinging the pack on once more - the realized that Beverly was smiling at him.

He raised a brow in question.

"Just nice to know I'm not the only one getting tired," she said.

The brow remained raised.

"You don't usually take such care in packing; you're tired, so you're stalling by taking a few extra minutes with the bag," she pointed out.

"Hardly," he demurred. "I was simply being polite, allowing _you_ to catch your breath," he replied.

She smiled. "Ever the gentleman, Jean-Luc," she replied, sliding down from the stump, then reached to take his hand.

To her surprise, he walked away, as if he didn't notice the out-stretched hand.

"Jean-Luc?" she said, surprised – and a little hurt.

He glanced back, a carefully crafted look of innocence plastered over his face - an innocence she knew was feigned. "Talk to me," she said bluntly, disregarding his expression.

"I'm sorry?" he replied.

"I'm not buying it, Jean-Luc. Something's bothering you – now talk," she insisted.

"It's nothing," he answered.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing important," he furthered, continuing to walk along the river path – but Beverly came to a stop, halting his progress.

"Jean-Luc, there are six billion people on this planet – but of all those people, you and I have only got one another," she said softly. "Please, talk to me," she added, her voice pleading.

Begging.

"Please?" she whispered.

Shocked at the fear in her voice, he said nothing, pulling her into his arms instead – then felt her arms reach around him, pulling him close to her.

For a long time, they stood there, nestled in the safety and comfort of one other – then he felt her shiver as a sharp wind cut through the trees.

"We should turn back," he said. "It's getting late…"

"…and cold," she added.

"And cold," he agreed. "Even if we find the crash point, we're not going to be able to get to it and back to the apartment before nightfall."

"You're right," she agreed.

Pulling apart, they turned and began to walk south once more, following the river's path toward Batavia.

"So what is troubling you, Jean-Luc?" she said softly.

"Nothing," he said. "I just had a moment of… realization."

"About…?"

"Our situation."

"And that is…?"

"I was wondering if buying an additional blanket was a good use of our… your money," he said – then hastily added, "not that I was questioning your judgment or your need!"

She managed a smile at his words, but it was quickly replaced with a sober expression. "Then what was it?"

"When I thought that – that we… you… might have better uses for the money, I realized that I'm beginning to think that perhaps – just perhaps…"

"We might not be going home," Beverly concluded for him.

He looked at her – then slowly nodded. "Yes," he said softly. "In that moment, I thought that we needed to start considering and marshaling out resources – because they are going to have to last us for a long time. Perhaps for the rest of our lives."

She moved close to him, placing her body against his, waiting for his arms to embrace her once against, then lay her head on his shoulder as he raised his arms to engulf her.

Perhaps, he thought, perhaps if we can not get home, perhaps…

Perhaps we can at least have this.

He held her for a long moment, then pulled back, smiling at her as reassuringly as he could. "We may not get back – but we will survive, Beverly. I promise you that."

"Or perhaps," she countered softly, "we will get home." She pointed to the distant tree line on the opposite side of the river bank.

There, highlighted by the lengthening rays of the slowly setting sun, was a thin line, slicing through the top layer of the distant trees, then disappearing abruptly into the steep wall of the sharply climbing river bank.

The shuttle! he realized with a start – then turned to Beverly, his face lit in relief and delight – and found himself face to face with the only woman he had ever truly loved.

They stared at one another for a moment – then he pulled her to him, and kissed her – as she kissed him.

After a moment, they pulled away, and Beverly turned to look at the trees once more – and the quickly fading light.

"Tomorrow," she said. "We're coming back tomorrow."

And then we'll find a way home.

In the depths of his dream, he heard the wind howl, felt the building shake; somewhere in his subconscious, he knew the temperature had dropped and that the small windows were rattling – but even so, it was not enough to stir him from the relative warmth of his sleep.

It was only when he became aware that the body beside him was shivering that consciousness came to him. Opening his eyes, he sat up, reaching for the comforter than was spread over the foot of the bed, and began to draw it over Beverly.

"Cold," she whispered sleepily through chattering teeth.

"Don't worry, I'm not stealing the blanket tonight," he reassured her.

"No," she chattered. "Room's cold."

It took him a moment to realize that she was right; the windows over their bed were inadequate to handle the wind and the low temperature. He'd have to do something about that... tomorrow. For tonight, however... Pushing back the blankets, he pulled on the worn bathrobe that he had been using as an extra cover then he rose from the bed, stumbled to the thermostat and hastily raised the room temperature by several degrees.

This wasn't the _Enterprise,_ he reminded himself as he moved back toward the bed; it was going to take several minutes before the heat came on – and the cold was reminding him of the two cups of tea he had had after their dinner.

Dinner, he mused as he made his way to the bathroom. Overjoyed at having found the site of the shuttle's landing, dinner had been a happy affair, with discussions of prioritization of the next day's efforts interspersed with remarks about how to prepare the pasta and who was to make the salad – and all done with their hands almost always entwined.

Soon, he thought to himself as he stood before the toilet; soon – and we'll be home, and not having to worry about winter weather and wind and thermostats and whether we can afford a fourth blanket - and we can finally discuss… us.

He finished, washed his hands, then shut off the light before opening the door again. With any luck, he thought, Beverly would have fallen back asleep, and he didn't want to disturb her rest.

He stood in the open doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the minimal light that filtered in from the windows, then carefully made his way to the bed – and stopped.

The covers on his side of the bed were pulled back – and just beyond them, Beverly lay propped up on one elbow, looking at him. She patted the open bed.

"Come on," she said. "It's getting cold!"

He hurriedly made his way to the mattress, sliding his feet beneath the covers… then realizing that something was different.

"It's too cold to sleep separately," she explained sleepily. "Three blankets and two bodies… we'll stay warmer together than apart."

"Beverly," he started.

"I can control myself if you can," she interrupted. "Get close," she added.

Uncertainly, he moved closer – but not close enough, he realized as she moved closer, easing her way under his bathrobe, pressing herself close to him. "Put your arms around me," she ordered.

Shivering too hard to smile, he complied with the directive, then removed one arm so he could arrange the blankets over them both, then buried himself under the covers – and against her.

"I apologize in advance for any untoward responses I might exhibit," he murmured. "I'm not used to sleeping this close to a beautiful woman."

"I'll accept the compliment – but I doubt you're going to have to worry about untoward responses, in this cold," she teased. "Nothing personal, Jean-Luc – but I am a physician; I do know a little about human male physiology. Intense cold and male arousal don't usually go together."

"Well, my dear doctor, I might just surprise you," he chuckled.

She smiled back. "I'm looking forward to it."

He kissed her softly – then pulled back, smiling. "Go to sleep," he told her.

She nodded, then sleepily murmured, "I love you," as she closed her eyes.

He watched at her for a few moments as her breath slowed and grew even – then kissed the top of her head. "As I love you," he whispered.


	17. Chapter 17

January 30

Cold.

The room was cold.

It took a moment for Jean-Luc to remember where he was and the bitter winter winds outside – then he smiled remembering how they had resolved that problem last night.

Reaching out for Beverly, he sought to pull her toward him, to nestle against her in the bliss of their mutual heat – but her half of the bed was empty.

Empty and cold.

Startled into full awareness, he sat up.

Turning at the sound, Beverly- fully dressed - managed a tired smile, then reached for her jacket. "Teague called. Something about his battery being dead and he can't get to the shop on time. Pat's not answering her phone, so I'm going to have to go open the place."

"I thought we were going to the shuttle site today," he said.

Beverly sighed. "As did I," she sighed. "But I can't let Pat down," she reminded him – then added, "but Chrissie should be there by 9."

She moved to his side of the bed, bent over and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "Why don't you get dressed and come give me a hand? We can leave as soon as the post-church rush is over. I'll even buy you breakfast," she added softly. "I'm learning how to make a mean bagel with cream cheese and lox."

"Temptress," he murmured.

"That means you'll be there?"

"Give me a few minutes to shower and shave and I'll join you," he promised watching as Beverly moved down the narrow staircase that led from the apartment to the school. A moment later he heard the building doors open, then close again.

Wearily, he pushed back the covers and rose from the warmth of their bed to the cold of the small apartment; tightening the belt of his robe, he ferreted out the day's clothes, making a mental note to make sure he did their laundry the next day, then headed for the bathroom.

One day a Starfleet captain, he thought as he stripped off his night clothes and stepped beneath the shower, the next, the highlight of my day is planning to wash the laundry.

We have got to get home, he thought as he quickly washed in the rapidly cooling water.

And if we don't? he asked himself as he dried himself a few minutes later. We can't survive in this world on what Beverly makes – and that would only continue as long as Pat and Gy were willing to allow her to work there. Admittedly, she more than carried her weight – but his days at the library had allowed him to study the news of this troubled world, and he knew all too well how precarious the financial situation of this world was. And even if the coffee shop survived, it would only be for as long as Pat wanted to keep it open, he added; if and when she closed it – or Gy closed the school, he added grimly – they would be without funds, without a place to live – they would truly be lost.

The replicator, he decided as he dressed. Retrieve the replicator first. With the replicator in hand, they could create whatever documents they needed to make their way in this world. Beverly could resume her work as a physician, and I can… He sighed, still uncertain what work he could do in this world. Perhaps I can go work as a barista, he laughed bitterly.

But it's premature to worry about that, he reminded himself. Even after we retrieve the replicator, I'm going to have to find a power source. Converting the power system to accept the electricity they had here would be a challenge – but he had done more complex conversions before – and he added ruefully, it will give me something to do.

Computer cores second, he continued. Survive here first – then use the computer to help find out how we can relate to events in the future, and get a message to Will.

What else? He ran through the list of items that Beverly had mentioned during dinner the night before: her medical scanner, their tricorders, the first aid kit, medicine - for their use only, Beverly had finally agreed after another heated discussions – the bag containing the reports from the conference.

He smiled at that last one. Beverly had reluctantly added that to her list, not because she was necessarily interested in reading the dozens of reports, but because she agreed that allowing the advanced medical knowledge into this society could easily do far more harm than good.

If they could power up the shuttle, they might be able to transport the heavier equipment directly back to the apartment. If not, it meant a half dozen trips on foot, he calculated – maybe more. And then? What were they to do with the shuttle once it had been denuded of everything of value? Even stripped bare, its very presence would damage this culture and interfere with the timeline. They had to move it – or destroy it.

Or send it somewhere where it wouldn't interfere with this culture, he added.

This culture, he thought as he stared at himself in the mirror, running a hand over the slight stubble on his chin - and smiled. This was one thing he would miss when they returned home, he thought; an isorazor might well leave him clean-shaven, but there was something sensual in the morning routine of shaving with these primitive razors. The luxuriousness of the shaving cream, the sound of the razor scraping across the coarse hair, the cold sensation of the clean skin that was left behind, the soft gasp as he nicked himself... again.

He sighed, dabbing a towel at the small cut. One of the many costs of trying to maintain one's sense of masculinity in this time period...

He looked up suddenly, staring at the image in the mirror once again.

Dear God, was that it? he asked himself in startled astonishment. Is that why I've been so grim these last few weeks? Because it's hurt my manly pride because I can't hold a job here? Because we... because _I_ am utterly dependent on Beverly for our survival?

He shook off the notion. No, I've served under women before throughout my career, and I've never resented it - or rather, he admitted, I've never resented it just because they are women, he added, knowing there had been more than a few female captains - and admirals - whom he hadn't respected - just as there had been more than a few male superiors whom he had considered as just this side of being a horse's ass.

But if not that, then what? he asked himself brutally.

He stared at the image in the mirror - and understanding began to dawn. Turning his face slowly from side to side, he looked not at the man he knew - but at what these people saw when they looked at him.

Not an old man, he thought - but one who was definitely past his prime in a society that focused on youth.

They didn't know that behind that face was more than fifty years of experience in exploration, diplomacy, warfare... they didn't know - and they really didn't care. He was past his prime in this youth-oriented culture - and after only a month here, among them, he was beginning to see himself as equally valueless.

And if we don't find a way home, I may become that very thing.

Or perhaps my value lies elsewhere, he realized solemnly.

The small bell on the front door of The Quarry coffeeshop rang as the door was opened. Looking up, Beverly steeled herself to face another of the Sunday regulars, a plastic smile readied, her store of small talk and chit-chat prepared – then felt a swell of relief – and pure joy – wash over her.

"Jean-Luc," she said softly, reaching a hand out to greet him.

He pulled off his glove, taking her hand in his, smiling at her – but there was sobriety in his eyes that startled her.

"What is it, Jean-Luc?" she asked quietly.

"I think I have an answer for how to get a message to Will," he informed her.

She looked at him, wanting to smile. "But… that's wonderful – isn't it?" she asked.

"It is – and I'm fairly confident it will work, but…"

"But what?" she pressed.

He looked around the small shop, and realizing they were alone, released her hand and gestured for her to join him at one of the small tables.

Beverly moved out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron, then taking his hand once again, joined him at a table.

"It's quiet in here this morning," Picard murmured.

"It's six thirty in the morning and ten below zero," she replied. "You have to be addicted to Pat's muffins to come out at this hour and in this weather – especially since I'm the one who's baking them this morning," she added.

He looked at her, then glanced down at the hands that lay in his. This wasn't the work a physician, a doctor of Beverly's caliber, should be doing, he told himself bitterly. She should be helping the injured, healing the sick – but she couldn't do that here, he reminded himself; here, her talents couldn't be used for anything lest she damage the timeline, and they truly became entrapped in this primitive land.

He had to get them home.

"You said you had a way to get a message to Will," she prompted.

He nodded. "The shuttle. If we place the shuttle in a place where Will – or someone else who will realize the significance of the shuttle – can find it, at the right time, someone will come to get us."

She nodded. "I know. We've discussed this before. I assume you've figured out a place?"

"Not just a place – a place and a time. Montana – at the statue of Zephram Cochrane. We know that the region has been geologically and politically stable – and relatively isolated – from this time until ours, except for the museum and when Cochrane was doing his early research. I'll place the shuttle fairly close to the statue, where it will be noticed."

"Except that the statue won't be built for almost another fifty years," she reminded him. "Leaving it there, now, will interfere with the timeline…"

"It will," he agreed, "if they see it. But if I reconfigure the shields, I should be able to render the ship optically invisible. Do you remember when Captain Scott used the transporter to keep alive when his ship crashed on the Dyson sphere?" he asked.

"Of course – something about keeping the system in a recycling mode, I think?"

He smiled. "Something like that. I can set up the shields to function in a low power mode and do something similar. It won't last forever – but it doesn't have to. I'll have to calculate just when we want the ship to become visible – too early and it may interfere with our timeline – too late, and Will might not be in a position to retrieve us, and others might not understand the message quickly enough." He smiled. "Which might be the reason we're still here," he added.

She raised a questioning brow.

"Maybe we did this – but Will had already left the system on a mission, and it's taking time for them to relay the message to him – and for him to act to come back for us," he said with a smile.

She laughed back, but her chuckle was restrained, uncertain; there was more to his plan, she knew – and she was not going to like it.

"So we take the shuttle to Montana, set the shields to keep it invisible – and then…?"

Picard shook his head. "Not we, Beverly. Me. You stay here. Setting up the shuttle's shields is going to take some time. After I've completed the work, I'll make my way back here…"

"Make your way back here… you mean you're going to transport back," she insisted.

He shook his head, smiling. "I don't think that will be possible. If we're going to keep the shuttle cloaked for three hundred years, every power source on the shuttle will have to be dedicated to keeping it working. Having it revealed at the wrong time will damage our timeline. I'm going to find a different way back."

"How?" she pressed.

He hesitated. "Walking – at least in part. Then there's something called hitch-hiking…"

"No," she said firmly. "No. We're not separating, Jean-Luc."

"Beverly…" he said in his most persuasive tone.

"No!" she repeated. "Jean-Luc, I don't know exactly where Montana is – but I do know that it damned far – and the region is treacherous! We barely walked ten miles yesterday – and that was on a paved path - and we were both exhausted! And hitch-hiking – that's hoping that someone will pick you up and drive you back here! Jean-Luc, not everyone here is a Gy or a Pat!" she argued. "I've seen stories in the papers about people getting hurt – or killed – by strangers!"

"I'll be fine," he assured her.

"Oh? Are you going to carry a phaser?" she pressed.

"Not in this timeline," he replied. "It's too risky…"

"You're damned right it's too risky! How are you going to feed yourself, or keep warm, or…"

"I'll be fine!" he snapped.

She looked at him incredulously. "Jean-Luc, you won't be fine! You can't possibly think that you can walk from Montana back here…" She stopped, suddenly understanding. "You're not coming back, are you?" she said.

He met her gaze – then shook his head. "No. I got you into this situation, Beverly – and it's my responsibility to get you out. And this is the only way…"

"No, it's not! It's not the only way!" she raged.

Furious, she pushed back from the table, strode away angrily – then turned on him again. "Damn it, Jean-Luc! There has to be another way! After I fell in the river, and you saved me, I told you to leave me there, to go and find help – to leave me. But you wouldn't! You told me that we were in this together!"

"We are," he said placatingly, "but…"

"But nothing," Beverly said – then sat pulled her chair to his side, taking his hands in hers. "Damn it, Jean-Luc, I haven't waited thirty years to hear you say you love me only to let you go off and leave me. " She lowered her head to their joined hands. "Please… don't leave me," she whispered. "Not now. Not here."

He stared at her for a moment, then eased his hands from hers – then took reached for her face, tilting it up to face him. "Oh, Beverly, I do love you. Don't you understand? That's why I have to find a way to get you home," he explained.

"Don't _you_ understand?" she replied. "Wherever you are – wherever _we_ are – that is home. Here, now – or back in our time. As long as we're together."

He stared at her shocked by her words – then pulled her to him, kissing her soundly.

Beverly froze for a moment – the molded herself to him, her arms wrapping around him, pulling him close as their kiss deepened, grew more intense…

Then Beverly pulled back, letting her head rest on his shoulder. "Not that going home wouldn't be better," she added. "But let's go home – together."

"Together," he agreed, holding her close to him.

They stayed in the embrace for a long moment, until the sound of the door's bell rang through the room. Quickly separating, Beverly hastily hurried behind the counter, Picard following. "I'll, uhh… restock the kitchen."

"Ummm… yes, thank you, John," she replied, then turned to the customer.

For a few minutes, Picard busied himself, trying to regain his composure, realizing why he had never allowed himself to get involved with a crewman. Taking the shuttle to Montana in order to send a message to Will so that Beverly would be rescued was, he knew, the right thing to do – but staying with Beverly was also the right thing, he knew.

Damn it, he sighed, it was so much easier when I was a captain! I didn't have to worry about my personal life and how it affected my decisions!

Mostly because I didn't have a personal life, he added a few minutes later. I didn't have Beverly – or rather, I had her as my friend.

Having her as… well, as whatever she now was… was, well…

Better, he decided.

It was a hell of a lot better.

Of course, it would be even better if they were home.

But if I can't take the shuttle to Montana…

He thought over the possibilities as he worked on bringing supplies up from the stockroom, ignoring the sound of the telephone ringing and the occasional sound of the door opening and closing, the hiss of the espresso machine frothing, filling the shelves, pulling the pans of muffins from the ovens as the timers went off.

"You're a handy man to have around the store, Mr. Picard," Beverly said as she entered the kitchen a few minutes later, moving the still hot muffins onto a plate.

"Glad to be of service – though I wish that service were getting to the shuttle," he replied.

"Patience, my dear captain," she replied. "Gy just called. He picked up Pat's messages and is going to go give Teague a jump start… not that I know what that means," she added.

"He's going to use his car's power supply to try to start Teague's," Picard explained – then managed an embarrassed grin. "I'm learning the local idioms," he explained.

"And the local technology," she added.

"I'm not sure that I'd consider internal combustion engines as technology, Beverly," he said. "At least not in comparison to the engines of our times."

She chuckled. "Right. Try telling me that that _after _you take one of those cars out and drive it," she countered.

"I'm afraid I'd need a driver's license," he pointed out.

"And why do I think that will be one of the first things you replicate when we get to the shuttle?" she teased.

"I think there's more to the process than just getting the license," Picard answered.

"Like getting a car – a task that Gy would probably like to help you with. Pat takes me shopping, you and Gy will go out driving," she sighed.

"I'm sure Gy would be willing to take you out for a rise," he offered.

"And Pat can take you shopping. Now that's something I would like to see," she grinned.

He started to form a witty reply when the front bell rang again. Hastily planting a kiss on his lips, Beverly returned to the front of the store.

Picard stared after her for a moment, a smile on his lips – then returned to his task.

After a few minutes, Beverly called out. "Are you ready for that bagel?" she asked.

Grinning, he quickly finished pulling the last pan of muffins from the oven, then settled himself back at the table where he and Beverly had sat just an hour before.

A cup of Earl Grey, steaming and fragrant, stood waiting for him; a moment later, Beverly presented him with a plate featuring a bagel, a small mound of creamy Neufchatel, and a few paper thin slices of smoked salmon.

It was an indulgent breakfast, he thought , but one he enjoyed sharing with Beverly.

Except that Beverly wasn't sitting beside him.

"Beverly? Not joining me?"

"In a moment," she replied. "After I serve this young man," she said, pointing toward the front window where a heavily coated young man waited.

"He doesn't seem too sure about coming in," Picard pointed out.

"Maybe he's waiting for someone," she replied, then smiled as the man turned and reached for the door.

"Good morning," she said sweetly.

Picard looked down, studiously watching his plate. Back home, that tone of voice would be quickly followed by a sharply acerbic remark, or a caustically biting observation – and usually directed at him. Here, however, it seemed to be nothing more than it appeared – the warm and welcoming tones of a waitress.

The young man murmured something quietly. Nodding, Beverly turned away, starting to prepare the beverage, then turned back – and sharply barked out, "Hey! Let go of that!"

Picard looked up sharply, then realized the young man had taken the small jar that stood next to the cash register, where patrons could leave tips.

Usually it held only a few dollars at any one time, but Beverly's customers tended to appreciate her service, wit and intelligence – and the jar must have held at least twenty dollars this morning.

It wasn't much money, Picard knew – but that was not the point. He rose to his feet – and the young man whirled to face him, whipping out a knife and pointing it at him.

"Back off, mister," he barked, then turned to Beverly. "Where's my coffee?" he added.

"What?" she asked, stunned.

"I want my damned coffee! Hand it over!"

"The hell I will," she replied.

"Give me my coffee!" he roared.

Picard looked at Beverly, then nodded. "I think you should give him his coffee, Beverly," he said quietly.

She looked back – then seeing Picard's expression, nodded back. "All right. Just put the knife down."

"Fuck you," he replied, then spun to face Picard who had taken a step closer. "And back off, gramps!" he snarled at Picard.

As the man turned toward Picard, Beverly picked up the cup of coffee and threw it at the man's face. Howling in pain, he dropped the tip jar, which crashed to the floor and shattered, sending coins and bills across the floor. Furious, he turned to face Beverly, the knife flashing toward her.

But even as his knife hand moved, Picard closed the distance between them; wrapping his hand over the man's, he flipped it over, bracing the fist against his shoulder, then pressed his opposite arm over the wrist.

The man screamed in pain, dropping his hold on the knife, which skittered to the ground. Seeing the man disarmed, Picard quickly reversed his hold on the man's hand, twisted it the other way, driving the man to the floor and eliciting a second panicky scream.

"Holy fuck!"

Picard looked up at the unexpected exclamation, and found himself face to face with Gy.

"He tried…" Picard began to explain.

"No, no, dude – we saw it all from across the street. We just couldn't get here faster," Gy hastily interrupted. "Teague, call the police," he said, then looked at Picard. "Get him on his feet," he ordered.

Releasing the pressure, Picard reached under the man's arm and brought him to his now very shaky feet, then pushed him down in one of the chairs.

"Beverly," Gy said, "are you okay?"

She nodded. "Yes. Just a little… surprised," she admitted.

"Me too. No one's ever tried to hold us up before," Gy said. "Of course, there's never been enough in the till worth stealing until lately," he added – then looked at the young man, who, Picard realized as he studied man, was little more than a teen.

"It was only a few dollars, young man," Picard said soberly. "Now you're going to be arrested, and presumably, go to jail for some time. Was it worth it?"

"Fuck off, old man. You don't know what it's like out there! Can't afford school, no jobs…"he started – then quickly deflated. "I was hungry," he finally said.

"You could have asked," Beverly said. "I would have fed you. All you had to do was ask."

The man – the boy – looked up at her – then looked at the front door as the bell rang.

A uniformed policeman entered – then nodded to Gy. "Morning, Gy."

"Morning, Carl. Sorry you had to come out on a crappy day like this."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, the policeman smiled. "Not a problem, Gy. So what happened here?"

Having seen the events from his vantage point across the street, Gy quickly related the details of the story, then watched as the officer handcuffed the young man and led him from the shop. "I'll need a full report," he added.

"I'll meet you at the station," Gy said. "I just want to make sure things are okay here first," he explained.

Carl nodded, then led the young man out the door.

He watched as the police car pulled away a few moments later, then turned to face the two visitors.

"Beverly, that was quick thinking," he said. "Throwing the coffee…"

"It was John's idea," she said.

"Good thinking, John," Gy continued.

Picard nodded absently, his eyes still locked on the front window – then looked at Gy. "What will happen to that young man?"

Gy shook his head. "Hard to say. First offense? Probably a slap on the wrist and he'll be back on the street. But that won't solve the problem: he needs a job so he can feed himself – and without an education, he can't get a job. If he's got any priors, he'll probably do a few years in prison – where he'll learn how to be a hard core criminal, and lose any chance for a real future. The only good thing here is that he ran into you two; he's going to have some minor burns on his face and a sore arm – but if he had tried something like that at the gas station, they guy might have killed him – or the kid might have killed someone by mistake," he sighed.

Picard sighed. "It hardly seems a fitting conclusion."

"What would you have me do, John? Let him pull a knife on Beverly – and let him get away with it?"

Picard glanced at Beverly, then back to Gy. "Beverly was never in danger, Gy," he said firmly. "She is eminently capable of defending herself. But to answer your question: no. A person who is driven to such desperate measures is a danger to the society – but more so to himself. What he really needs is help," Picard said.

Gy gave a rough laugh. "I never took you for a bleeding heart, John."

"I'm not. The punishment should fit the crime; the crux of the issue, however, is determining what the real crime was," he answered soberly. "Being poor and hungry isn't the crime: not being able to get and keep a job is."

Gy studied the man for a long moment, then rose to his feet. Looking at Beverly, he said, "Chrissie's on her way in. Once she's here, why don't you two go home? I'll let Ma know what happened here." He sighed, then looked at the two. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm glad it was the two of you here, and not Teague and Chrissie. This could have turned into a tragedy," he said quietly.

"You might consider teaching them some self defense," Beverly opined.

Gy nodded – then looked at Jean-Luc. "Wrist pronation?" he asked, remembering the way Picard hand disarmed the young man.

Jean-Luc nodded. "Then suppination after a moment; restress the pressure point to prevent any acclimation to the pain."

"You could have dislocated his wrist," Gy pointed out.

"I could have dislocated his shoulder," Picard countered, "and I would have, if the situation had warranted the action. It didn't," he added.

Gy thought for a moment, then spoke. "John, you're right - in a way. It's not just math or writing or science classes that that kid needed – he needed to learn about character."

He fell silent for a moment – then smiled.

"John, I think I have a job for you."


	18. Chapter 18

January 31

Beverly pulled the warm pants from the… dryer, she thought, recalling the name Jean-Luc had given to the large machine. A washer and a dryer, she reminded herself. The two devices were nowhere as efficient as a refresher or a recycler – but in comparison to their first efforts at washing their clothes in the apartment's bathroom and hanging them up to slowly dry, they were marvelous indeed.

Still, she thought, it was a tedious way to spend an evening – placing the clothes in one device, adding detergent, then money, then waiting until they finished the long cycle of washing and rinsing, then moving the damp clothes to the second machine, adding more money, and waiting once again.

Jean-Luc had warned her of the tedium – and, on his advice, she had gone to the library first, compiling the notes that Jean-Luc had requested on converting power from the antiquated systems that ran this society into some form that would supplant the diminished power of the shuttlecraft.

In doing so, Beverly had happened upon a medical journal – and had compiled a few notes of her own. Not that there would be anything enlightening in them, she knew – but...

But, she sighed, if we are to be stranded in this time, I have to know the state of medicine if I'm ever to fit in as a doctor. All my technical knowledge, all my surgical skills, all the years of training in xenobiology – all for nothing, here, but at least human physiology remained the same.

As did virology, she added, glancing at the pages she had copied from the medical journal – then smiled. Apparently some of the paradoxes that her compatriots had discussed at the medical conference weren't quite as original as they had thought, she realized as she glanced over one of the abstracts.

Next trip to the shuttle, and I'm bringing back those reports, she told herself.

Or at least some of them, she added, rolling her shoulders at the memory of the aches that had resulted from their first successful trip to the shuttle yesterday.

After the attempted robbery – and after Gy had had a long talk with Jean-Luc – the young man had offered to drive them part of the way toward the location they had sighted the day before, but even so the remaining walk down the steep slope had been almost as treacherous as it had been on the day of the crash – and the walk back with the first of their retrieved possessions equally fatiguing. The only good news had been that the location of the shuttle was well disguised by the trees and perilous terrain; for now, at least, it was unlikely that anyone would see the shuttle, let alone plunder its contents.

The bad news, Beverly reminded herself, was that the trip was so long and so fatiguing that they would only be able to retrieve a small amount of the contents each time – unless, of course, they could find a way to re-energize the engines and power the short-range transporters.

And then what do we send to the apartment? she asked herself. The replicator? A lovely idea in theory – but without the power to run it, it would be pointless. The same thing for the computer, she added. No, she knew, the only things that made sense to send back to their apartment was the portable contents of the vessel – the reports, the few emergency items that every shuttle carried, the spare medical kit…

Beverly sighed, knowing that there would be an argument with Jean-Luc over the use of the kit. He would argue that using it for themselves would not create an issue in the timeline – but to use it for others might. He was right of course, but every fiber of her being argued against that contention. First and foremost, she reminded herself, she was a healer!

Of course, in this wary and litigious society, she didn't dare present herself as a physician without having the proper accreditations, lest questions come up that neither she nor Jean-Luc dared answer. And even if the replicator was able to create the needed documentation, she couldn't use the medical tricorder or scanner without risk of creating even more questions.

She sighed, then glanced at the pants that were in her hands – then glanced down at the filthy jeans she was wearing. Next pay check, she thought, and I'm getting a second pair of these. For now, however, Jean-Luc's pants were going to have to do double duty.…

Several minutes later she emerged from the laundromat's lavatory, now clad in Jean-Luc's pants. Opening one of the washers, she added her pants to the load that was being washed, then settled back to read the paper.

A wash of cold air startled her back into the present a short time later. Looking up, she smiled blandly at the two young women who entered, each carrying a basket of laundry, then turned her attention back to the paper.

"Damn it," one of the women muttered. "He's not here."

"I thought you said he always comes on Monday night," the other said.

"I said he's always does his laundry on Mondays," the first one chuckled. "What else he does is his business – not that I wouldn't be more than willing to help him do both!"

"Maybe he got scared off because of the blizzard."

"I can't imagine anything scaring him," the first one said. "He's like… gorgeous."

"Gorgeous isn't necessarily brave."

"Oh, he's brave – you can just see it in his face."

"His face?" her companion chuckled. "I thought you spent all your time staring at his ass."

"Not all of my time – the rest of him is worth checking out, too," the first chuckled.

"Mr. Hottie's got a nice package?"

"Oh my god. Yum city. Best thing is he doesn't even seem to know how hot he is. He just comes in, says 'hello' in this _incredible_ voice, and I'm creaming in my jeans."

Beverly glanced up at the remark, but the two women seemed oblivious to her presence. Rising from the hard plastic chair, she set aside the paper and moved to the washer. Tranferring the clothes to the dryer, she then emptied the now warm clothes from a second dryer and began to fold them as she surreptitiously continued to listen to the conversation.

"What about Terry? I thought you were hot for him."

"Terry's a child," the first girl replied disdainfully. "This guy's like… a man."

"So?"

"So?" the first one repeated.

"So why aren't you doing him?" the second asked.

"He's not like that!"

"All guys are like that."

"Well, he's not!"

"Maybe he's gay."

"Uh-uh. You'll see – he's like… hot."

The two women continued to chat about the absent man for some time, then let their discussion turn to other, equally important topics.

A short time later, the dryer emitted a loud buzz, and Beverly rose once more to empty and fold this final load of clothes. Finally she placed them in her laundry basket, tucked the papers into the folder, then pulled on her coat.

A scattering of snow had begun to fall – but if this dusting was a prelude to the blizzard the two women had mentioned, it was going to takes several days to amount to anything, Beverly thought. Still, even this flurry would leave the freshly washed and dried clothes wet once more; pulling the top of the basket close to her body, she increased her pace, hurrying across the bridge and up the road toward the school.

As she opened the door, she was a little surprised by the lack of noise coming down the stairwell from the classroom above – then turned to look out the front door. Gy's truck was gone – and judging by the light dusting of snow in his parking space, he must have been gone for a least some time.

It's late, she realized. Setting down the laundry basket, she locked the front door of the school, noting the snowshovel that had been propped by the radiator that was near the front entry, turned off the hallway lights, then quietly ascended the steps.

Jean-Luc's probably already in bed, she thought – then smiled to herself. Having listened to the two young ladies at the laundromat, there was no doubt in her mind that they had been discussing Jean-Luc; what would they have thought if she had told them that he was now in their bed?

They would have thought, she reminded herself with a sigh, that she and Jean-Luc were involved with one another. Unfortunately, they would have been wrong.

So should I have told them? she asked herself as she locked the school doors. Not that he was in her bed - their bed - but that he was working nearby, and, for all intents and purposes, available? Turning off the classroom lights, she mused, he's got a right to make relationships here – if he wants to get involved with one of them, or anyone, for that matter, then why shouldn't he?

Resolved to tell him about the young women, she closed the door to the back hall, locked the small office door, then slowly made her way up the stairs to the small apartment.

Clearing the last step, she turned into the apartment – and smiled.

Sprawled face-down across the bed in a most un-captainly pose was Jean-Luc Picard, clad in a sweat-soaked do-bahk and black belt – and groaning softly.

"It couldn't have been that bad," she teased softly.

"They were all children," he grumbled into the mattress.

"Gy teaches children," she reminded him. "What did you expect?"

"When he asked me to help teach, I thought there would be some adults… but they were all… _children!_"

Beverly chuckled, then set the laundry basket down on the floor before taking a seat on the bed.

Feeling the weight shift, Picard rolled onto his side – then groaned again, sat up, removed his belt – then lay back, propping himself up on one elbow.

His do-bahk fell open as he did so, revealing a still well-muscled chest and a nice scattering of grey curls.

_Mr. Hottie, _indeed, Beverly thought, wondering if the man had any idea how attractive he really was - then locked her eyes on Jean-Luc's face, studiously ignoring the exposed flesh . "Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?"

Jean-Luc stared at her for a moment – then grinned in understanding. "Actually, it wasn't that bad. Exhausting," he added. "Between yesterday and today, I'm worn out. I guess I'm getting out of shape," he sighed.

"Hardly," she replied. "I still think we're both dealing with some effects of the time travel. Or perhaps there's a change in the nutrition content of the area foods. Either way, neither of us seems as hardy as we were back on the Enterprise. That said, I haven't seen much of a physical change in either of us. So what were you doing that left you so tired?" she asked. "Surely teaching a few children wasn't that exhausting."

"No," he agreed. "But Gy was teaching me the poom-sae…"

"Poom-sae?"

"Forms," he explained. "Gy insisted that I wear the black belt for the sake of creditability; I objected, as I haven't earned the rank. We compromised: I'll wear the belt if he'll teach me the forms. However, as it typically takes two to three years to learn the nine lower forms, I may have bitten off a bit more than I can chew," he admitted. "They can be grueling - and I'm only working on the white belt form." He gave a faint groan as he adjusted his position on the bed?

"Sore?"

"A little - though I suspect that will change significantly by the morning," Picard replied.

"Well, why don't you go take a shower – and I'll tell you about my adventures."

"You found out something about the power conversions?" he asked hopefully.

Beverly smiled. "Different adventure. This one was about you."

He raised a brow. "Oh?"

"Go take your shower – and I'll tell you while you wash up," she said.

She followed as he entered the bathroom, pulling one of the tall chairs - a bar stool, Gy had called it - near the half open door. Settling in, she began to recite the conversation she had overheard as he went about his ablutions.

As she spoke, she realized that she enjoyed this part of their relationship; not the sexual aspect of being so physically close to a naked man whom she loved, but rather the intimacy of their friendship. Here they were, only a few feet apart, Jean-Luc going about his washing, oblivious to her presence as anything other than his friend - and she doing the same. In this place, and in this time, there was a security in the simple knowledge that, first and last, they were and always would be friends.

She had missed this part of a relationship with Jack. Even though they had been married for five years before his death, so much of that time had been spent with him away on missions, or with her occupied in her studies and residency. When they had been together, it seemed that sex had always been the first thing on their minds - and while the sex had been good - really good, she reminded herself - their relationship had never really transcended that boundary.

Perhaps it would have - in time, if they had been given time; perhaps as they aged and mellowed, they would have found this type of intimacy as appealing as their bedroom romps had been.

And perhaps not, she admitted; for all their passion, she and Jack had been two people who were devoted to their careers. Time and maturity might well have pushed them apart as easily as it might have drawn them together.

Savor the memories of what you did have, she reminded herself quietly - but savor the present as well.

Fifteen minutes later, Picard emerged from the bathroom, resplendent in clean pajamas and bathrobe. "I appreciate the compliment, Beverly, but I do think those ladies were referring to someone else."

"That could be," she conceded, though she couldn't imagine many other men who could arouse a woman with a single word. "However, you've been doing the laundry every Monday evening; have you seen any other men there when you've been there?" she asked.

"No – but that doesn't mean anything. I'm only there for an hour or so – and I'm usually reviewing my notes from the library. I don't actually remember seeing anyone else there, male or female," he informed her. "And unfortunately, I think the laundry duties may fall to you, Beverly – at least for the time being," he apologized – then moved closer to her, reaching his arms out to her. "I'm sorry. This hasn't been fair to you – having to support us at first – and now having to do more than your share of the work here while I learn the forms."

"It's fair – so long as you use your free time to work on finding a way to re-power the shuttlecraft," she replied. "You know, you're idea about Montana wasn't a bad one. Do you think it would be possible to program the shuttle to travel there without one of us as a pilot?" she asked.

Picard considered the idea for a moment – then gave an uncertain nod. "Perhaps. We'll need to get the computer on-line and run the numbers; I'll need to reprogram the auto-pilot – and we'll have to find a way to run an external holographic program to keep the shuttle hidden. It's possible," he added – but the hesitancy in his voice was unmistakable.

"But not likely," she answered soberly.

He shook his head. "No. The power levels required in our time would have taxed the shuttle to the maximum; here, now… we'd need to re-energize the system, and I simply don't know if that's possible. And even if it is… we're going to have to purchase the supplies needed. We can't use the replicators without power – and we can't power the replicators without those parts. And even though I will be earning money for doing this work, I don't realistically expect to be able to raise the amount that those parts may cost us. Not in any reasonable amount of time.

"As it stands, I think we're going to have to find a different way to let Will know where we are – and we're going to have to find a way to disguise – or destroy – the shuttle."

Seeing the disappointment in her eyes, he pulled her against his chest and felt her head bury itself in his shoulder. For a moment he hesitated, then slowly raised his hand to the back of her hair and gently stroked it. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I promised you I'd get you home, but… I may not be able to keep that promise. I'm sorry," he repeated.

"It's all right, Jean-Luc," she answered softly. "I've always known this was a possibility – getting lost on a mission. I just never thought it might really happen – and not like this."

"But we will survive, Beverly," he said. "Now why don't you get ready for bed?" he said, pulling back. "I've got something I want to show you," he added with a grin.

She raised her brows in surprise and curiosity. "Oh?"

"Oh," he repeated. "Go on, get changed," he ordered, then added as she walked away, "Um, Beverly? Are you wearing my jeans?"

Beverly glanced down, blushing at the realization of what she was wearing. "Oh! Um - yes. I'm sorry, Jean-Luc; I wanted to wash mine and…"

"I understand. No apology necessary," he interrupted. "Just be thankful that the same idea hadn't occurred to me."

Beverly nodded – then chuckled. "I wonder what those girls would have said."

"Pardon?"

"Well, there they were, wanting to get into your pants – and there I was, already in them."

By the time Beverly emerged from the bathroom, the room lights had been turned off , but if the faint light that filtered into the room from the school windows she was able to see that Jean-Luc had turned down the blankets on her side of the bed – a silent invitation to… what? she wondered.

Jean-Luc patted the bed. "Come on," he said, then watched as she slid beneath the blankets.

He pulled the blankets over them both, then took a small device from the nightstand, pointed it at the computer monitor that had been in the apartment since before their arrival, and was rewarded with a faint blue glow.

"This is the height of this society's culture, Beverly – a television. Gy said he would 'hook it up to the cable' – I don't know what that means – but in the meantime, he has provided us with DVDs."

"What's a DVD?" she asked.

"A video," he explained. "Gy left several dozen for us. I thought… I thought you might like to relax and watch one with me tonight." He pressed a button, and a moment later, an image came on the screen.

"Pirates of the Caribbean?" Beverly asked as she read the screen.

"I think it's an historical documentary," Picard explained.

She woke in the early hours of the morning, the faint light from the overhead windows filtering into their small room, Jean-Luc's soft inhalations the only sound.

After only a month, she already had learned to judge the time by the amount of light in the room, and glancing at the alarm clock, she knew she was right. There was still more than an hour left before she had to rise and get dressed to go to work.

Nonetheless, she knew that her need for sleep had been filled. As comfortable as it was lying here in Jean-Luc's arms, she felt a need to get up. Rising, she wrapped Pat's old afghan over her shoulders and moved toward one of the windows overlooking the do-jahng, staring out through one of the small openings that faced the parking lot at the back of the school.

It was not a scenic view, she knew - but from this angle, she could see the trees that bordered the far side of the lot as well as a few rooftops, and, lit by a streetlamp, she could see the occasional flake of snow drift down.

So much for the blizzard, she mused - thought she had to admit she wasn't disappointed by its absence. More than once in the last few weeks, the howling of the wind outside their apartment had woken her, leaving her shaking - and shaken. Nightmares of their trek from the shuttlecraft still haunted her, and even in the depths of her dreams, she couldn't fully free herself from the haunting memory of the bone chilling cold that had almost killed her.

Almost killed them both.

She looked back at Jean-Luc, sleeping stilly in the depths of the early morning. You almost died that night, she thought; it wasn't the first time, she added - she had seen him on the verge of death more than once before - but each time, she had managed to pull him back. Her skills - and his indomitable will to live.

But this time - this time she had been the cause of that near disaster. This time, she alone had been responsible for bringing him to the edge of depth - and this time, she had not been the one to save him.

She turned back to the falling snow, staring at it silently, lost in her thoughts.

A hand, so gentle she almost didn't feel it as it pressed against the small of her back, pulled her gently from her reverie. Turning to face him, she whispered, "I didn't mean to wake you," she apologized.

"You didn't - or rather, you did - but most nights, after you make your evening promenade to the window, you come back to bed. When you didn't, your absence woke me," he explained.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize..." she began, but he silenced her quickly.

"Don't apologize. We're forced to endure one another's company almost constantly - I can hardly begrudge you a few minutes to yourself. But... would you like to talk about what's troubling you?" he asked softly.

She shook her head, unable to face him with her guilt. In the morning, she knew, the worst of it would have fled as light and activity filled her life - but in the small hours of the night, alone with him, it was almost more than she could bear.

"Please," he added a moment later. "As you said, in this world, the only people we have are one another. Talk to me, Beverly."

She shook her head again - then turned to him, burying her face against his shoulder so he couldn't see her in her misery. "I almost killed you. When you jumped into the river after me, you could have died... you almost did die... because of me."

If she expected a protestation of her innocence, she didn't get - and she felt a wash of relief come over her as he declined to flatly absolve her of her guilt.

"I did," he agreed a moment later. "It was my choice, of course; no one forced me to jump in after you - but..." He pushed her back, forcing her to look at him. "But what would you have had me do, Beverly? Leave you there? Hurt? Maybe drowning? Certainly freezing to death? Is that what you would have asked of me?" he said.

"And then what? Go on, leading my life alone, without you, knowing that I had let the woman I loved die through my inactions. Saving myself at the loss of your life was never an option, Beverly," he told her sternly. "Even before I knew that we would be trapped here, I knew that a life without you in it was no longer a life that I wished to live." He pulled her close to him, kissed her soundly, but chastely, then turned her toward the bed. "Come now. Let's go back to sleep before we have to get up and face a new day in this strange world," he said, guiding her back to the bed, then as she lay down beside him, arranging the covers over them both.

Pulling her into his arms, he smiled at her. "But know this, Beverly Crusher, we can face the trials this world presents, and survive - as long as we are together." He kissed her once more, drew her closer then lay back against the pillows.

In a few minutes, her breathing eased as sleep returned; a few minutes later, he joined her.


	19. Chapter 19

February 1

Something soft and heavy landed with a 'whump' on Jean-Luc's chest; startled into semi-wakefulness, he stared dully at the source of the attack.

"Beverly?" he muttered.

"Get up," she said firmly. "I need to get to work."

He sat up slowly, reaching for the clothes that she had thrown on him, and started to pull them on - then realized what she had just said. "Beverly, the coffee shop is just across the street," he pointed out.

"I know, but... well, come and see," she said.

Planting her hands on her hips, she watched as he pulled the jeans over his pajama bottoms, then pulled the sweatshirt on. Deigning not to bother with his boots until he saw the full extent of the problem, he followed her out of the apartment, through the still dark do-jahng, and down the dark staircase.

Well, it wasn't that dark, he thought; there was light at the front of the door...

Light? At five in the morning?

It took a moment for the situation to register - and when it did, he began to chuckle. "It snowed," he informed her.

"It snowed - and then some! It's pressing against the door and I can't get it open," she grumbled.

"All right," he said, taking a moment to assess the problem - and to put his mind into action.

After a month of being away from the ship, Jean-Luc had found himself less and less able to jump into full awareness on waking - which was, he reminded himself, the very reason he loathed long vacations; by the time he returned to the ship, he had to reacquaint himself with the need to come to full wakefulness at a moment's notice - and each time the challenge became more and more difficult.

Still, there had always been the knowledge that he would have to reacquire that skill - and somehow, it had kept him from completely relaxing when he slept; a part of him was always on alert, always ready to jump into action. Over the last few days, however, he sleep had become deeper, more restful - an acknowledgement on the part of his subconscious, he thought, that perhaps this was the way the remainder of his life was to be spent. No more ship's emergencies, no more disasters in the middle of the night - no more calls at all hours from angry admirals or baleful bureaucrats.

For the first time in more than fifty years, his nights were his own.

Except, he added with a faint smile, for emergencies like this.

He quickly changed into his Starfleet winter gear, pulled on his boots and cap and headed back to join Beverly , who had only managed to open the door a few inches in his absence.

With the long window obscured by snow, he realized they would have no way of knowing precisely how much snow had piled against the door , but given the faint amount of snow he had seen falling during the evening, he suspected it wouldn't be much; more likely the wind had simply pushed it against the door, and one good thrust ought to push it back enough to let Beverly out. Then, he added, glancing at the shovel by the door, I'll clear the path so tonight's students wouldn't bring in too much of the snow and salt with them when they came upstairs.

Bracing himself against the door, he chuckled; two days ago, it was the laundry that worried me. Now, I'm worried about having to wash the stairs every day!

The laugh still low in his throat, he shifted his weight - hesitantly, suspecting the door was going to fly open as soon as the obstacle was cleared - then frowned. It had budged - but only barely. Where Beverly had opened the door an inch or two, he had but added only half that much. He pushed harder - then harder - then shoved his full mass against the wooden frame.

The door now revealed a three inch gap.

"Damn it!" he swore under his breath - then looked at Beverly, who despite her concern at being trapped in the school, wore the slightest trace of a gloating smile. "Give me some credit, Jean-Luc; if it had been that easy, I wouldn't have gotten you out of bed," she said quietly.

"I'm open to suggestions," he replied.

"The fire escape?" she offered.

He harrumphed. "That was your plan all along, I suspect," he grumbled.

"It was a contingency plan - if you somehow couldn't manage to open this door," she added.

"You just don't want to go down those stairs," he pointed out.

"Of course I don't!" she replied emphatically. "They're steep, they're dangerous - and they're high. And you know how I feel about heights," she reminded him.

"I have no fear of heights - but those stairs are something else," he agreed, thinking about the narrow metal stairs that led from the back of the school. Gy had assured him that they were well secured to the building, but even so, they moved with every step, swaying with even the slightest of breezes - and the covering of snow was not going to make them any safer.

He sighed. "All right," he conceded.

"You'll do it?" she asked hopefully.

Picard sighed. "I'll do it - but you'll owe me," he said.

"I'll make you breakfast," she agreed.

"You do that every morning," he countered, then added, "but if I don't get that door open, I'll not get anything," he sighed.

Beverly smiled, then handed him the shovel that Gy had left them. With a feigned fierce grumble at the task ahead,- he took the shovel and trudged back up the stairs, crossed the school floor, unlocked the back door, braced his shoulder against that potential obstacle and shoved.

To his surprise, however, the door opened easily, revealing a solemnly still parking lot, heavily masked in a thick layer of white snow, while more flakes poured from the skies to join the masses that had already fallen.

Not a blizzard, Picard thought, but a gloriously heavy snowfall. Beautiful, still, peaceful...

He drew in a deep breath, savoring the cold, crisp air, then stepped onto the landing, closed the door behind him and cautiously made his way down the narrow and treacherous metal stairs.

Finally reaching the ground, he stepped into the snow, and was more than a little surprised to find it reaching near the middle of his legs. It made for slow going, and by the time he made his way out of the parking lot and up to the street, he was breathing heavily.

Turning to cross the north side of the building, he looked up at the road before him, and began to chuckle.

The back of the building, it seemed, had been sheltered from the worst of the storm, but the north side - and the street ahead - seemed to have taken the full brunt of the weather. Drifts that reached to his waist covered the road and swept up the sides of the old stone walls, covering windows and doorways; in the dim glow of the working streetlights, he could not tell where the street ended and the sidewalk began.

Clearly it had been hours since the last vehicle had traveled the road; as he slowly pushed his way toward the street in front of the school, he realized that not even the plows had ventured out in this storm.

Nor would they for some time, he decided, watching as the snow began to fall harder.

There was probably little point in excavating the front of the school, he told himself; it was unlikely that anyone - aside from Beverly and himself - would be venturing to the coffee shop this morning. Still, he persevered, making his way slowly toward Wilson, then down the street until he reached a drift that appeared to be somewhere near the front of the school.

If there was a good note to the storm, it was that the snow that had fallen in the previous hours had been fairly light - unlike the snow that was falling now, he thought; it made the work easier. Finding a place to put the snow, on the other hand, was more of a challenge. Finally resigning himself to the inevitable, he began to shovel it into the street, apologizing silently to the plow operators who would have to move it in a few hours.

After a good half hour's worth of work he found himself in sight of the school's outside door frame. Redoubling his efforts, he pushed his way closer and closer until he was able to clear enough space for Beverly to open the door.

"Oh, my," she whispered as she stepped out of the building - then glanced back at the drifts that had pushed against the building's façade. "No wonder we couldn't get the door open."

"Indeed," he replied.

They stood for a moment, sharing the peaceful silence of the usually busy street, now a silent landscape of snowcovered buildings, roads and cars - and they, the only two people in it.

A strange world, he repeated to himself - and only you with whom to share it, he added.

He reached for her hand, and was pleased to have his taken in return.

"I suspect you're not going to be very busy today," he said after a few minutes.

"You're right; Pat called while you were out and said not to bother opening the shop," she informed him. "They've declared Wilson too treacherous and closed the road from here to the library; they won't even send out the plows until the snow stops - and that's not going to be for a few more hours. The school's are closed, public works are closed... Gy said he's going to call the students and tell them not to come in tonight - he said that the parking lots won't be plowed until tomorrow at the earliest. So, it appears we have the day to ourselves, Jean-Luc," she said. "Any ideas?"

He looked at her meaningfully. "Oh, more than a few, my dear."

Beverly looked into his hazel eyes and smiled back. "Let me guess. Breakfast?"

Unable to maintain the pretense, Picard broke out laughing - then turned, faced the waist high drifts that stood between them and the coffee shop - and sighed. "I suspect by the time we've reached it, it will be closer to lunchtime."

"Then let's get started," she said, and taking the shovel from him, began to dig her way across the road.


	20. Chapter 20

February 14

Gy barged through the door of the coffee shop, his nervousness evident in his manner. "John! Bev! Are two almost ready? We need to be heading out..."

His voice trailed off as he saw the two at the far side of the small store. "Holy shit," he murmured. "Damn, Beverly, you wash up good! And John... you could tempt me to hit for the opposite team. Damn!" he muttered.

Pat walked out from behind the two, smiling lovingly at her son. "You look pretty good yourself, Gy," she told him.

"I don't care about good - I need to look respectable," he reminded her. "Do I strike you as a bastion of society?" he added, straightening himself.

She smiled as her son posed awkwardly; he was, she thought, a man far better suited to jeans and a work shirts than a suit. "You don't need to put on airs, Gy; just be yourself," she reminded him.

Gy blew out a long sigh, then leaned forward and kissed his mother's cheek - then pulled away and glanced at Picard and Beverly once more. "Damn," he repeated, then added, "Okay, I'm going to go get the truck and pull up in front. Don't dawdle – I don't want to be late," he added. Pulling on his gloves, he strode out through the front doors, leaving Pat to face the two.

"Don't mind him," she said reassuringly. "The court building is only a few miles away – and you've got plenty of time to get there. Gy's just nervous. He's never had to go to court for a situation like this. And I'm so sorry that you have to as well," she added, reaching for Picard's tie, adjusting the knot slightly. "There," she said, then looked at Beverly. "Are you sure you don't want to borrow a purse?" she asked.

Beverly shook her head. "Thank you, but I don't have anything to carry," she explained, then reached for Pat's hand, seeing Gy's anxiety reflected in his mother's eyes. "It will be all right, Pat," she said - then glanced at Picard worriedly, silently asking him the same question.

He nodded back at her - but, he admitted, he was no more certain about what lay before then than she was.

What he was certain of was that she was utterly beautiful in the outfit that she had purchased a few days before - not that she wasn't utterly beautiful in everything she wore, he added. The close-cut suit skimmed her slender figure, subtly accenting her curves, the deep blue accenting the color of her eyes and hair, yet leaving her looking like the professional and mature woman that she was.

Buying the suit - and buying his, he reminded himself - had been an outlay of funds that neither of them had anticipated; even with the both of them working now, they still had to carefully budget for every expense. But the prosecutor had insisted on the matter, explaining to them that their physical appearance might have as much impact on the judge as their words would.

Pat had, of course, offered to share the expense – but they had declined the offer, accepting instead the gifts of an afternoon away from the coffee shop for Beverly, and the first two classes away from the school for Picard.

"Don't worry about the classes, John," she reminded him. "It was my school long before Gy started teaching. I'll be fine until you and Beverly get back."

He nodded at her, then reached for Beverly's coat, holding it up for her as she slid her arms into the openings, then pulled on his own coat. "Thank you, Pat. I'm sure we won't be too long," he agreed.

"As long as you're back before 5:30," she reminded him. "Ralph and I have reservations for dinner and I want to get home, shower and make myself beautiful," she said – then added, "Are you sure that you and Beverly don't want to join us? You're not going to be able to get reservations anywhere else tonight, but I'm sure they can fit you in at our table…"

Beverly smiled at her friend. "We appreciate it – but by the time class is over…"

"Well, if you change your minds, let me know," Pat sighed.

Beverly nodded, then slid her hands into her gloves as Picard donned his hat, then taking her arm, escorted her to the door. Opening it for her, he glanced back at Pat, smiled at her as she waved then turned away and walked out.

Standing on the corner, Beverly tried not to shiver as the cold winter wind blew against her bare legs. "Whoever is in charge of fashions on this planet has never had to wear a skirt in the middle of winter," she muttered.

"Nonetheless, you do wear it well," he told her.

Beverly smiled. "Thanks, Dix," she said.

Picard gave her a puzzled look.

"You said the same thing the first time you and I were on the holodeck, playing one of your Dixon Hill stories. Or don't you remember?" she teased.

He stepped closer to her. "I don't remember what I said – but I do remember that you looked beautiful," he said. "Some things," he added, "never change."

He stared at her for a long moment, then glanced across the street. Seeing Gy's truck approaching the intersection, he glanced at Beverly. "Ready?"

"Not really," she admitted. "I never cared for giving testimony at a court martial; I can't imagine this will be much different. At least there my name and reputation stood for something; here, I can't even prove that I am who I am," she reminded him.

"You're the woman who was attacked," he reminded her. "That's all you have to be."

"Attacked," she scoffed. "He was on the far side of counter, Jean-Luc. He couldn't have hurt me if he tried – and he didn't. Not that I don't appreciate what you did," she continued. "But… What we're about to do may change the timeline, you know. Are you sure?"

"Whatever we do may change the timeline," he reminded her. "Testify against him, not testify…" He sighed, then looked at her. "We've been able to download much of the history of this period from the shuttlecraft's computers – but details at this level rarely survived. Whether our actions here will affect our future is something that we cannot know."

He looked at her – then fell silent, moving to the passenger side door of Gy's truck as it pulled up to the sidewalk in front of the shop. Wordlessly, he opened the door, helped her into the truck, then took his place next to her. Closing the door, he secured his seat belt as Gy spoke. "Sorry for the close quarters, Beverly," he said, trying not to notice how her leg pressed against his, "but Cor's borrowed my car…"

"It's fine, Gy," Beverly interrupted. "If nothing else, it will keep me warm. And it's not that long of a drive. Pat said the court was on Randall?"

"About a mile north of the Commons," Gy agreed. "I'll drop you two off at the front door then go park. You need to meet the prosecutor in Judge Flender's office at one o'clock," he added. "Just go to the information desk and they'll tell you where his office is," he added.

Beverly smiled at the man's obvious anxiety. "We'll figure it out, Gy."

Despite her reassurance, however, Gy was still clearly troubled – and, she admitted, so was she. Glancing at Picard, she saw a similarly troubled expression on his face.

Reaching for his hand, she wrapped her fingers around his – then felt his hand tighten slightly, accepting her contact gratefully.

The three rode in silence for the brief time it took to travel from the shop to the courthouse. Turning into the parking lot, Gy steered the truck near the main doors, then stopped. "Go on ahead. I'll be in as soon as I park the truck."

Moving out first, Picard turned, reaching for Beverly's hand, then helped her out of the truck. Despite his apprehension at what they were about to do, he allowed himself a momentary distraction, smiling appreciatively as her skirt slid up as she stepped out of the truck, revealing a well-turned expanse of leg.

Nonchalantly sliding the skirt back into place as Picard closed the door behind her, she straightened, then looked at her companion as Gy drove away. "Judge Flender's office?" she asked.

Picard nodded – then offered her the crook of his arm before leading her into the large building.

As they entered, Picard glanced around, then pointed toward a central desk. "Information," he said, then led Beverly toward the clearly bored clerk who sat at the desk, reading a book.

The man glanced up, appraised the two, and sighed. "Bureau of statistics is in room 120. County clerk is in room 205."

Picard looked at Beverly in confusion, then back at the man. "I'm sorry, but…"

"Look, if you don't have your license, you need to get that first. Room 120. If you've got your license, go to room 205. I hope you've got something to read, because the line is long," he added.

Picard looked at Beverly again, now thoroughly confused. "I'm sorry, but…"

Beverly spoke up. "We're looking for Judge Flender's office. We're supposed to meet the county prosecutor," she explained.

Startled, the clerk looked at the two again then shook his head. "Sorry. The way you two were dressed… I thought you were getting married. I musta seen fifty couples come in today – Valentine's Day and all… Just thought you were one of them. Sorry. Uh…" He glanced at the computer monitor, typed in a name, then nodded. "Judge Flender. He's in room 280. You'll have to go through screening," he added, pointing to the far side of the room.

Fifteen minutes later, they found themselves at the door to the judge's office; tentatively knocking at the door – then let themselves in.

"Ah!" Rippert Gutierrez, the county prosecutor, said as they entered. "Ms. Crusher, Mr. Picard. I'd begun to think you might have changed your mind. Not that I would blame you," he added.

"Nor I," came a second voice.

A silver-haired man dressed in judicial robes stepped forward. "Ms. Crusher," he said proffering his hand to Beverly. "Mr. Picard. I'm Errol Flender. Please have a seat. We're waiting on Mr. Edrickson, I believe – but we can talk while we're waiting. I must admit that when Mr. Gutierrez came to me with this matter, I was more than a little surprised – and I'm not certain that this is a good idea. Before we go any further, I'd like to know why you want to do this."

As they moved toward two of the chairs that had been placed across from the judge's desk, the prosecutor took their winter coats, then sat in a chair halfway between judge's desk and their seats.

"I'm not sure I understand your question," Picard said as he took the seat.

Beverly glanced at him, trying hard not to smile. It had been more than six weeks since they had arrived in the world – but even so, Jean-Luc was still acting as though he was negotiating an agreement for Starfleet , trying to elicit information from the judge before he responded.

The judge seemed unaware of the tactic, however. "Well, as I understand the case, the defendant has been accused of armed robbery. He pulled a knife on your wife, here…"

"I'm not his wife," Beverly interrupted.

"My apologies," the judge amended, continuing before either could correct him. "He pulled a knife on this lady, threatened her life – and yet you would like to have the charges dismissed," he continued.

Picard drew a long breath. "Yes."

"And you concur?" he asked, turning his attention to Beverly.

She nodded.

The man sighed. "I don't understand," he said. "You haven't been threatened, have you? You're not asking to have the charges dropped because you're under duress, are you?" he pressed.

"No, sir," the two replied.

"Then why? Most people who have been placed in similar positions – victims in what is an open and shut case according to Mr. Gutierrez here – would prefer to see their attackers put behind bars – and for a long time. Yet you would have him set free to wander the streets?" he pressed.

"No sir," Gy's voice came from the back of the room. "Not set free – and not to wander the streets," he said as he walked toward the desk, quickly shedding his coat, extending a hand to the prosecutor, then taking the remaining open chair.

"Then what are you suggesting, Mr. Edrickson?" the judge asked.

Gy glanced at Picard, who nodded. "What we're suggesting, your honor, is not revenge for what he did – but a chance to resolve the reasons he did it."

He leaned forward. "I've talked with Mr. Gutierrez, your honor, and he's told us that Fred – Fred Grancher, that's the young man – doesn't have a criminal history. But he also doesn't have a job, or much of an education – or a place to live. When that's the life you're facing, you end up acting from fear, not reason."

"We don't see how going to jail is going to resolve any of those problems," Beverly interjected.

"It would teach him that there is a consequence to his actions," the judge reminded her.

"He's already aware that there are consequences," Picard said. "We have to consider that there would be consequences to our actions as well – and those would not be to the advantage of Mr. Grancher or our community. Indeed, he would leave prison older, but no wiser, and no better prepared to face the necessities of life than he is now. Mr. Edrickson would like to put forth a proposal that we feel might better suit the situation and benefit not only Mr. Grancher, but everyone."

The judge nodded. "And that proposal is…?"

"I'll take him on as an apprentice in my construction business," Gy said. "He'll work about six hours a day, then go to Waubonsee Community College four evenings a week to get his GED. In addition, he's going to train at my martial arts studio three nights a week…"

He judge bristled. "I don't think that teaching a criminal martial arts is advisable," he replied.

"Actually," Gy replied, "studying martial arts is exactly what he needs. He needs to learn confidence, self-control, honor, integrity, respect, perseverance and loyalty. That's what martial arts is about, you know," he added.

The judge looked at him, surprised. "Really? I thought it was about all those kicks and yells and whacking the bejeezus out of everyone else."

"Well," Gy admitted, "we do that too."

"The physical training is the means, your honor," Picard explained, "but the end goal is to help our students be better members of their community."

The man made a slight sound of surprise in the back of his throat – then looked at Gy once more. "While that's admirable, there are still issues including a residence…"

"Actually, one of the men from my company is going to let him stay with him – at least for a while," Gy added. "Once he's on his feet financially, I'll help him find an apartment of his own."

The judge considered the matter for a moment – then looked at Beverly. "And you, Ms. Crusher? Do you agree with this? You were, after all, the one who was threatened."

"Justice isn't just when it's applied blindly and only for retribution," she answered quietly. "This young man – this boy – was hungry and cold and tired – but what he really needed wasn't food, but for someone to help him. But he didn't know how to ask – or perhaps he had asked in the past and was denied. If he is sent to jail, will I feel safer when he is released in one year - or five or ten? No. Perhaps I'll feel even less safe, because one more person will be on the streets unable to support himself – and needing to rob me so that he can survive. Help this one man now – and perhaps there will be one less person to fear in the future," she said softly.

"Or more," Picard added quietly.

She looked back to him, nodding solemnly.

"Mr. Gutierrez? You're in agreement with this?" the judge asked.

"Not entirely," the man replied. "But… I agree that sending this young man to prison isn't to the benefit of anyone or our community. It rarely is. However, the crime he committed was a serious one, and while having our community members step forward to take such an active role in the rehabilitation of a criminal is a noble effort, I'm not certain that this is a precedent we want to establish. Perhaps we can work out a compromise; in return for a plea of guilty to a diminished charge, Mr. Grancher would be placed on probation for a period of two years, during which time he would have to maintain employment, attend school, refrain from associating with other criminals…" His voice trailed off as he looked hopefully at the judge.

The judge thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll need to see the terms of the complete plan – but I can give you all tentative approval of the basic idea. Mr. Gutierrez, I would like you to approach Mr. Grancher and his attorney with the proposal, and let them know that the court will honor the agreement."

He stood and walked to the front of his desk as Jean-Luc, Beverly, Gy and the prosecutor rose to their feet. Extending his hand to Gy, the judge smiled. "I hope that we can make this work, Mr. Edrickson; I'd like to know that for once we were able to benefit a young person in trouble." He considered for a long moment, then continued, "There was a time when we stepped up to assist one another, rather than relying on the government to do so for us; perhaps we are re-entering a time of greater self-reliance – and greater kindness to our fellow man. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to be in court in…" He glanced at his watch, "five minutes. Mr. Gutierrez, please let me know when you have the draft of the proposal. Mr. Picard, Ms. Crusher, a please to meet you both. Mr. Edrickson, thank you. And… by any chance do you have a business card? My grandson has been talking about taking martial arts classes…"

Despite the relative brevity of their meeting with the judge, it was still well after three by the time they left the courthouse. Even with the late hour, Gy had insisted on taking them to lunch, declaring that although Pat had given up teaching martial arts full-time, she still enjoyed her occasional return visits to studio - and that the children adored those visits.

"You're not going to be doing her any favors by showing up early, John," he had cautioned when Picard had begun to protest Gy's suggestion for the meal. "It was hard for her to give up teaching, but working two full time jobs was getting to be too much. But even so, she loved it - and I try to have a reason to take off an afternoon or evening every now and then - and she's just as happy to pretend that I have to be away," he said. "So let her teach the first class -but," he added hastily, "don't be too late or she won't have a chance to get ready for her evening out with Ralph - and we don't want that," he cautioned as he drove back toward the school.

Picard gave him a slightly puzzled look.

"It's Valentine's Day," Gy reminded him. "I'm sure Ralph's got plans to wine and dine Ma - and he's probably got other plans that I don't even want to think about. And Ma probably has similar plans," he added with a shudder.

"And you, Gy?" Beverly interjected with a smile. "Do you and Corrie have plans for tonight?"

"Err... No," he admitted. "Cor's been pushing me to get serious..."

"And you're not ready?" Beverly asked.

Gy laughed. "Oh, I'm ready - but... you know. The economy and all."

Beverly gave the young man a puzzled look. Hadn't he just spent the last hour detailing the financial position of his construction company to the county prosecutor, establishing that the company could handle bringing their attacker on as an employee without undue difficulty? And now he was concerned about money?

Or maybe, she realized, it wasn't his economy that was concerning him.

"You know, Gy, I've never asked, but what does Corrie do for a living?"

"Not much," he replied instantly, then hastily added, "she works at a local dress shop. It pays a little more than minimum wage - but she barely gets out of the place before she's spent her money on more clothes. How women can have fifty pairs of shoes - and still _need_ more - is beyond me," he sighed - then quickly looked across the seat at Beverly. "Present company excepted," he apologized.

Picard forced back a chuckle. "Sounds a bit like Counse... Deanna," he murmured to Beverly.

Beverly grinned back.

"Deanna?" Gy asked.

"A mutual friend," Beverly explained. "She's rather fond of shopping when the opportunity presents itself."

"But not you?"

"I'll go along for the adventure - but I don't find it to be the sport that she does," Beverly admitted. "Except when I'm on the hunt for something specific."

"Like shoes?"

"Like tea," Picard offered as he looked at the woman beside him. "Beverly has been known to go to extremes when she's looking for something for a friend."

Gy glanced at the two, catching a knowing smile between them. "You know, I can find you two a room," he teased.

"Pardon?" Picard said, pulling himself back to the present.

"Nothing," Gy chuckled, then turned the truck into the entrance to a small shopping center. "The Honey-Jam Café," he informed them as he pulled into a parking spot. "Best pancakes in town. Probably the best in the county," he added.

As they exited the truck, Picard glanced at Beverly. "Pancakes - for lunch?"

"Remember that café on Luxor Four?" she asked quietly. "We had them for dinner."

He hesitated for a moment, then gave a nod, remembering the brief shore leave they had spent on the planet - though, he reminded himself, the food had not been nearly as note-worthy as Beverly's companionship had been.

But then, he added, very few things were.

"So," Gy asked a short time later, as he pushed away a plate, now empty but for the sticky smear of pure maple syrup - all that was left of the stack of cakes he had demolished. "What's on your agenda for tonight? After class, I mean," he explained.

Picard looked at Beverly who gave a non-committal shrug. "Nothing really. Maybe a quick five kilometer run," she added. "Now that the sidewalks are clear of snow..."

"Beverly," Gy interrupted, "it's fricking Valentine's Day - and you two are going running? And I think my love life's a disaster. Jeez," he sighed. "You know, you two can lighten up once in a while. You know, let your hair down - nothing personal, John - and just relax." He leaned forward, dropping his voice a level. "Look, whatever put you two here in the first place - well, it hasn't come after you. I think you're safe - and maybe it's time for the two of you to stop living for today, and start thinking about tomorrow. Okay?" he said, raising his brows in silent question. "Okay, I'm going to go settle up, and then we should head back. Don't want to make Ma late for her date," he added with another shudder.

He rose from the table, leaving the two alone - but despite the momentary privacy, Beverly found herself unable to look at Jean-Luc, let alone to speak with him. In awkward silence, they eased themselves out from the banquet, joining Gy at the cashier's desk.

The short trip back to the school was made in equally strained silence. Pulling up in front of the school, Gy thanked the two, wishing them both a good night, adding as Picard turned back to close the truck door, "Think about what I said, John. You could have a good life here - anywhere - when you decide to settle down and stop running. Okay? See ya' tomorrow," he added as the door closed, then eased the truck back into the lane of traffic.

Beverly had stopped just inside the doorway to the school, waiting for Picard, but rather than asking what Gy had said, she simply walked beside him as they climbed the stairs, the sound of young children's voices echoing down the long hallway.

The voices stilled momentarily as the two entered the do-jahng, only to be replaced a moment later by delighted squeals.

" Mr. John!"

" It's Mr. John!"

" Mr. John's here, Ms. Pat!"

There was a rush of young bodies toward Picard - who halted them with a quietly raised hand. "Excuse me? Did you ask permission from the senior to leave the floor?" he asked them with quiet firmness.

Abashed, the children turned toward Pat, and raised their hands. "Ms. Pat, can we leave the floor?" they asked solemnly.

Chuckling to herself, Pat nodded - the flood of children rushed over Picard. "I made you a Balentine's card!" one girl announced, while another asked, "Will you be my Valentine, Mr. John?"

A third interrupted. "You can't be his Balentine, Karola. Ms. Beberly is his Balentine!" she insisted with the mature certainty of a five-year old.

One of the boys insisted, "Valetines are stupid."

"Valentines are not 'stupid', James," Picard countered. "You may not like them, but that does not make them 'stupid'," he admonished the boy gently.

"Jimmy's just mad 'cause he didn't get any!" one of the girls teased.

The boy's face tightened as the taunt reached him - a clear sign of its accuracy.

Hurriedly, Beverly spoke up. "Well, that's not true at all! I saw some in his cubby just this morning!" she insisted.

The boy's eyes widened. "Really?" he asked.

Beverly nodded - and at her response, the boy looked at Picard. "Can I go see?" he asked.

"It's Ms. Pat's class, James; you must ask her permission," he reminded the boy.

A moment later permission had been granted, and there a mass exodus from the floor, quickly followed by peals of laughter. As the children's voices echoed into the do-jahng, Picard glanced at Pat, shaking his head.

"I told you they would like the cards and the cookies, John," she said. "A little effort goes a long way with children. This class is almost over," she added. "Why don't you go change, while I bow them out?" she asked.

Picard nodded, then passed the rows of chairs where a dozen of the mothers sat, ostensibly watching their children practice - and less than subtly watching Picard walk past as he exited the room.

Beverly glanced at the women, Pat's eyes following her gaze. "Word's gotten out about Mr. John teaching classes, Beverly - as has the word that he's single. You might want to stake your claim before someone else does," she cautioned.

"Pat," Beverly sighed, "John and I are friends - but just that. We don't have a commitment to each other - and if he wants to date other women, it's his choice."

Pat pulled the woman close. "Beverly, those women are not interested in 'dating' John. They have other ideas entirely - and if you're not going to do something about your relationship, then I will."

She pulled away from Beverly, turning to the mothers. "Ladies, it's not on the schedule yet, but Mr. John is going to start teaching a women's self-defense class next month. I'll have a sign-up posted by the end of the week..."

It was only a little after seven when the last of the students left that evening - a tribute to the significance of Valentine's Day celebrations in the small town. The parents of the few late students they usually taught had called in, begging off classes for the evening with tales of family dinners out and children's parties - and few with stories of over-indulgences in cookies and other treats.

Putting down the phone after the last of the calls, Beverly looked at Picard, seeing the fatigue in his face. "We can skip the run if you're too tired," she offered. "It's been a long day," she added.

"That it has," he agreed with a sigh, then looked at her. "How would you feel about a walk instead? I'd like to get out of here for a little while," he explained.

"That suits me just fine," she agreed. "After wearing those high heels all afternoon, I'm not sure my feet are up to a run," she said with a soft laugh.

"Beverly, if you're not up for a walk..." he immediately apologized.

She silenced him in mid protest. "I'd love a walk. I'll meet you downstairs as soon as you've changed - unless you're going to wear your do-bahk," she added. "The ladies do seem to love seeing you in it," she teased.

He gave a low growl. "If I didn't owe her so much, I'd contemplate killing Pat for that little stunt. But on a business level, it's going to bring in a lot of income for the school," he sighed. "She had twenty-two women sign up for it today - at one hundred dollars a month - and I get fifty percent of that... " He managed a weary chuckle, but with little humor in it. "You know, Beverly, there was a time when money had no meaning to me..."

She moved close to him. "And that time is four hundred years from now," she reminded him softly. "Get changed. I'll meet you downstairs."

The night air was cold and crisp, refreshing but not too chilling; a touch of spring graced the air, hinting at what was to come in the next few weeks - but not quite yet.

Beverly shivered as gust of wind brushed the back of her neck; freeing her hand from Jean-Luc's, she pulled up her collar - then reached for his hand again, seeking - and finding - in it the solace she needed tonight.

It was enough - his hand in the quiet calm of the dark night - but after a time, she knew she had to speak.

"What we did today... we're risking the timeline, Jean-Luc," she said.

"Perhaps, perhaps not..."

"You didn't want me to try to help Pat, Jean-Luc - but helping this stranger was not a potential risk?" she pressed.

"It wasn't the same thing, Beverly," he pointed out. "When you wanted to help Pat, we had no way of accessing out history, to tell if she was - or wasn't - a key component in our future. Now we've downloaded the computer files from the shuttle - and as far as I can tell, neither of these people - Pat or that young man - will have an effect on our future."

He fell silent for a moment.

"They died in the first wave of attacks in the war, didn't they?" she asked softly.

He nodded. "The records from the shuttle were rather clear about that. This entire area was destroyed."

"So nothing we do here will change that," she continued.

"No," he said soberly.

She nodded.

They walked on for a time before she spoke again.

"So if our actions didn't affect them, didn't affect us - why did you want to try to keep him out of jail? In a few years, it won't make any difference," she pointed out.

He stopped, turning to face her. "Not to the future, no... but here, now..." He fell silent for a moment, looking out over the river that had brought them to this place, to this life. " 'For as long as space endures, and for as long as living beings remain, Until then may I too abide To dispel the misery of the world'," he recited softly.

"Shakespeare?"

"No. A Buddhist prayer." He hesitated for a moment. "I found one of Pat's books..."

Beverly gave a soft laugh. "Only Pat would put bookshelves - and books - in the bathroom," she chuckled.

"It does provide one with the opportunity - and the occasion - to read," he replied solemnly.

"It's nice to know that's what you do when I'm at the coffee shop."

She fell silent again - then looked back at him. "It was a good thing - what we did today. Even if it doesn't make a difference in the long run."

He nodded.

"Because that's what we're here for," she added quietly. "The long run. We're not going back, are we?"

He looked at her - then shook his head. "The shuttle's power systems are continuing to deteriorate," he said. "I'm going to use them to power our equipment as fully as possible. If we parcel out the resources, we should be able to use the tricorder, medical equipment and the replicators for a time - possibly years. Possibly the rest of our lives. With what power remains, I'm going to force a small landslide, which will bury the shuttle in that debris. No one will find it before the war starts - and after, well, this area will be abandoned for years. By them if someone does find it... well, Starfleet will exist by then, and they'll be able to reason it out. I will leave a message for Will, of course... but..." He took her hand in his. "I'm so sorry, Beverly. I never meant..."

She shook her head against his apology. "We both knew this might happen, Jean-Luc. I guess we should be happy that we've always managed to come through these disasters in the past. And... we're alive, and safe. Maybe that should be enough for us both," she said softly.

"So this is our life," she continued.

He nodded again.

They looked at one another for a long time - then Beverly took his hand again, and, turning, started back down the path they had been walking.

In silence, they retraced their steps to the school; unlocking the door, Jean-Luc opened the door for her, then locked the door behind him, followed her up the stairs. They shed their coats at the school entrance, doffing their wet boots, and crossed the school room floor. As Beverly ascended the stairs to the apartment, Picard fell behind, locking the door, then following her up.

As he reached the apartment, he was a little surprised to find her standing there, waiting for him. For a moment he expected to hear her launch into her justifiable anger at this turn of events - and was doubly surprised to see her stretch out her arms to him.

Solace, he thought as he fell into her embrace; such comfort I find in these arms.

And these lips, he added a moment later, as she kissed him.

There was, however, no companionly chasteness in her kiss. Her passion was evident - and unexpected.

He pulled back. "Beverly?"

"If this is to be our life, Jean-Luc, then let us finally live it," she said.

He stared at her for a long moment - then moved close once again, letting his passion meet hers, without hesitation - and without end.


	21. Chapter 21

February 15

Beverly lay on her side in the dark stillness of their bedroom, her head resting on Jean-Luc's arm as she spooned against him, their hands still entwined as they had been for most of the last few hours.

She had needed his hand, needed it to serve as her anchor while everything that had made their lives what they were changed - and he had seemed equally loathe to release hers from the safety of his grasp.

Oh, there had been times when she had released him - when she was stripping his shirt from his body, or helping him free himself from his trousers, just as he had release her when he was helping to take her clothes off - or to caress her body as she had caressed his - but time and again they had come back to holding hands...

She laughed under her breath, not wanting to disturb him from his current efforts at covering every inch of the back of her neck with his soft, warm kisses.

"Hmm?" he murmured softly, having waited far too many years to want to interrupt this task so soon.

"Nothing... Just... I was thinking we've been holding hands all this time... well, almost all this time... Except when I..."

He stopped in mid-nibble, pulling away slightly.

Suddenly concerned that she might have offended him, Beverly turned over to face him, ready to apologize, only to realize he was blushing.

"Jean-Luc?"

"Umm... yes... I, err... Uh, well... You see..."

She smiled at him, uncertain whether she loved him more when he was the masterful linguist addressing a conference of hundreds - or when he was utterly tongue-tied at this most intimate and private of moments - but certain that she did love him. She moved closer, kissing him softly, then laid her head back on his arm.

"For a moment there, I thought maybe you didn't like that," she said softly. "Not every man likes having a woman pleasure him with her mouth - or so I'm told."

His eyes widened at the idea. "I'm certain that there is someone out there who feels that way - but none that I've ever met."

"Then...? Why did you stop me?" she asked. "I thought you were enjoying it."

"I was," he replied, his voice rough at the memory of her exquisite touch, her lips, her mouth, her tongue, the feel of his hands running through her hair as she knelt before him... Mon Dieu, he thought, even now, only a few minutes after we last made love, and the mere thought of her is making me hard again.

"Then...? Too much even for your legendary self-control?" she teased softly.

He shook his head. "No... Almost," he admitted an instant later. "We've waited almost thirty years for this, Beverly. I didn't want our first time to be over in thirty seconds," he added. "And it wouldn't have been - until I looked down, and saw you there, before me, on your knees, your mouth on me... Every fantasy I have ever had about you, about us, suddenly came rushing over me - and I knew if I didn't stop you then, I wasn't going to be able to stop myself."

She smiled in the dark room. "I wouldn't have minded, Jean-Luc."

"But I would have," he protested fervently. "I wanted out first time together to be... together. I wanted to be in you, looking at you, watching your face when I... when we..."

She pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with hers, kissing him softly before pulling away. "So... you've fantasized about me?"

"About us," he corrected. "About how we would make love. About the things I would do to you, about how you would sound and move when I pleasured you, about what you would do to please me..."

"And...?"

"And?" he answered, perplexed by the question.

"Do I live up to the fantasy?"

He stared at her for a moment, wondering how she could ever doubt herself in that matter - then realized that once again she was teasing him. "So far," he replied a moment later, deciding that he, too could play at that game.

"So far?" she laughed.

"I've loved you for more than thirty years, Beverly," he answered, instantly apologetic, unsure if she was offended by his attempt at humor - and unwilling to risk hurting her even in the least. "There have been a lot of fantasies in all that time," he admitted, a little embarrassed.

"You've had other lovers," she reminded him.

"But they weren't you."

"And my lovers weren't you," she replied. "When I realized that - that I preferred a fantasy of you to someone real - I knew that whatever I might have felt for them, I was, in a way, only using them. I didn't want that - for them or for myself," she admitted.

He moved closer, kissing her gently as if to ease the years of loneliness from her heart - then smiled. "So... You've had fantasies about me, then?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied. "What did you think I did after all those dinners we had together? Read medical texts?"

"No, but it would have been somewhat presumptuous for me to assume I was in your thoughts - even if you were in mine... but I could hope," he added.

"Well, you were most certainly in them - although you in the flesh was a bit of an unexpected surprise," she added, remembering her first site of him naked and aroused. "A lovely and delightful surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. You do live up to your reputation," she added, her hand sliding between their bodies to caress his growing hardness.

He gave her a second puzzled look. "You've seen me without my clothes before, Beverly," he pointed out.

"Yes - when you've been hurt, or injured or sick - not at your prime. Definitely not at your prime," she repeated, stroking his length and earning a soft groan from him in return.

"Beverly..." he managed hoarsely.

She smiled at him. "I don't have to go to work for a few hours," she reminded him.

"You don't want to get some sleep first?" he asked, more out of courtesy than out of a lack of desire; the gentle ministrations of her hand was making sleep the last thing he wanted - but she did have to leave soon.

Beverly gave a soft laugh, then grew serious. "I don't ever want to sleep again, Jean-Luc. We've waited far too long for this for me to ever want to waste another moment when we could be together with something as unimportant as sleep." She pressed herself against him, her lips to his, and spoke softly into his mouth. "Sleep can wait, food can wait," she whispered, "the world can wait. All I want now... and forever... is you."

Beverly looked up from behind the counter as the door chimed and smiled pleasantly - not too pleasantly! she cautioned herself - at Pat as she entered the shop, but the woman was far too busy hurrying in to notice anything different in Beverly's expression.

Not that there was everything different, Beverly told herself; after the first customers of the morning had given her curious looks, and one had asked after her health, she had hastened to Pat's office and availed herself of Pat's make-up kit. A touch of concealer under the eyes covered the dark circles that had come from a night of no sleep - and a touch more on her face softened the bright blush that bespoke her exuberant bedroom activities. Now, three hours later, the make-up had faded a bit, leaving her look like a woman who had been running a coffee shop by herself for almost four hours on a busy morning rather than a woman who had spent the previous eight hours putting a healthy dent in fulfilling twenty years of sexual fantasies.

I'm glad to know someone else had a good evening, Beverly thought as she studied Pat's glowing face, though she found no trace of a double standard in her noting Pat's happiness while trying to conceal her own. Pat had never made any pretense at hiding her amorous adventures from Beverly and Jean-Luc - though, thankfully, she also never went into excessive detail, either. Still, there was never any mistaking which mornings followed a night of her bedroom frolics: Pat, who almost always smiled, positively beamed on those mornings, her satisfaction in the world exuding from every pore.

That, Beverly thought - and the fact that she was invariably late on those days.

Beverly didn't need to look at the clock to know that it was well past nine in the morning; even with the Valentine Day parties and romances that had marked the previous night, most of their clients had followed their regular habits the next morning - and having just served Gary, the insurance agent, his usual macchiato, she knew it had to be almost half past the hour.

"Good morning, Pat," she said carefully, making sure her tone of voice was precisely the same as it was every other day. After all, she thought, while Pat was certain to be pleased for both her and Jean-Luc, she didn't think he would appreciate being the object of the inevitable bawdy comments that would follow their discovery - and neither would she, Beverly decided. "The coffee shipment was delivered, and I've checked it in. I called the dairy; we're running low on half and half. They'll have the driver stop by with an extra order before noon. Teague used the last of the blood orange syrup and didn't mark it on the list," she added.

"Not a problem!" Pat sang out as sailed past, pulling off her coat. "I'll run out and pick up a few bottles this afternoon; make sure you add it to tomorrow's order."

"Already done," Beverly replied with a relieved sigh. One encounter done, she thought; only the rest of my life to go without provoking a reaction.

Still, she sighed, it might be easier if Jean-Luc skipped his usual morning visit today.

They had discussed that option as they lay together a few hours earlier - then dismissed it. Anything - even something as trivial as his not having breakfast at the shop - might provoke Pat's curiosity. Still, they had discussed every detail of their 'typical' breakfasts, trying to make sure that whatever they did this morning would be completely unremarkable.

Still, Beverly sighed, maybe I shouldn't have been quite so efficient this morning; if Pat was tied up in the stock room while we're eating, she might not notice that something - everything! - had changed.

"Everything okay, honey?" Pat asked, walking up behind Beverly.

Startled, Beverly gasped - then turned around, chuckling. "I didn't hear you," she said.

Pat smiled back. "You were worlds away. Are you okay? You look a little peaky. You and John sleep okay?"

Horrified that she had somehow betrayed their relationship in only a few seconds, Beverly hastily replied, "No! We just had a rough night... I mean it was a long and hard day... I mean..."

Surprised by Beverly's reaction, Pat patted the woman's arm reassuringly. "Take it easy, dear. What you and John did was a wonderful thing," she said soothingly.

"Yes, it was," Beverly agreed, "I mean..."

Pat smiled gently. "I know what you mean: deciding to help that young man was wonderful - but it was also risky. You're putting a lot of faith in someone you don't know - and you're risking the possibility that he may just go back out and do what he did to you to someone else. That was a difficult decision - I'm not surprised you two had a rough night over it," she concluded.

"Ummm... yes," Beverly demurred.

Smiling to herself, humming softly, Pat turned, re-entering the work area behind the counter.

Dear God, Beverly thought to herself, I sound like I'm fourteen! Was I this obvious when I was involved with Odan? she wondered - then glanced across the street at the door to the school.

Oh, Jean-Luc, how I must have hurt you when I fell in love with Odan, she thought with a pained sigh.

Not that I wasn't jealous of your relationships, she added silently; Vash, Nella, Kamala, Jenice...

Oh, the time we wasted.

Or perhaps we didn't waste it. Neither of us were ready - and, she added with brutal honesty, if we weren't here, stuck in this place and time, we'd still be dancing around each other, neither of us able to make the commitment to one another that we both wanted and needed.

Fate and circumstance have forced our hand, she thought, and as much as I did not want to spend the rest of my life in this world, at least I can spend it with you.

With you, she repeated as she watched the door of the school open and Jean-Luc step into the morning's cold wind.

Glancing to one side of the road, then the other, he waited for a lull in traffic, then hurried across the street, giving a half leap over the small mound of snow that was the only remnant of the blizzard a few weeks before.

If only we had made this decision two weeks ago, she thought as she watched him walk toward the shop, we could have spent that day doing something more than watching movies and making a mess in the shop's kitchen.

Not that it hadn't been fun, but...

But we'll have more chances, she told him silently as he opened the door.

"Good morning, John," she said in her perfectly measured tones.

"Good morning, Beverly," he replied easily, his expression perfectly controlled.

He reached for her hand - as he always did - and took it in his.

"Tea and croissant?"

"I thought a muffin this morning," he answered. "I'm rather hungry."

"Cranberry?"

"Lovely," he agreed.

She freed his hand from his, set about making the small meal, then gestured for him to take his usual place at one of the small tables.

Exactly as they always did, Beverly thought with relief, placing the plate and cup on the counter, adding her own breakfast selections, then walked around the counter. Picking up the plates, she set them on the table, then added the cups and sat down across from her lover.

"Are you going running this morning?"

"I thought I'd work on the forms today. It's a bit windy."

She nodded.

"And you?"

"Nothing exciting. What would you like for dinner?" she asked as she raised the muffin to her mouth and bit into it.

"You."

Caught in mid-swallow, Beverly began to choke. Hastily swallowing a sip of the hot tea, she managed to get the piece of muffing down, then glared at Picard. "I thought we agreed..."

"Pat's in the back," he said with a smile. "She can't see us or hear us - and I had to tell you how wonderful last night was. And this morning. And this afternoon?" he added hopefully.

"You're incorrigible," she whispered back.

"I'm making up for too many years of lost time," he answered - then glanced toward the kitchen door. Finding no prying eyes, he raised Beverly's hand to his lips, kissing it softly. "This afternoon?"

"I don't get off until three," she reminded him, "and your classes start at four."

"I'm sure we can find enough time..."

"I hope not," she countered. "A little patience, my dear captain, and I'll make it worth your while."

"I'll hold you to it," he replied - then hastily set her hand down, picking up the muffin as Pat re-entered the dining area.

"Good morning, John," she said as she breezed past him.

"Good morning, Pat," he replied evenly, calmly, with practiced ease and assurance.

Pat made it one step further, then stopped short, backtracked to the table and stared at Picard.

"Oh... my... god..." she said, staring into his eyes - then turned and slapped Beverly on the shoulder. "And you didn't say a word!" she added accusingly.

Beverly's mouth fell open - only to be quickly closed. "I don't know what you're talking about," she tried.

"You two... 'only friends'..." Pat burst out laughing delightedly. "Oh, my! Wait until I tell Gy..."

Picard stood quickly. "Pat... Please don't. At least... not for a while. This is new for us, and well..." He lowered his voice, turning Pat away from Beverly.

They spoke for a moment, Pat growing, in turn silent and thoughtful, then grinning and jubilant. She patted him on the cheek, then returned to where Beverly still sat, stunned, kissed her on the cheek and trundled her way back into the kitchen. "Don't worry, loves, your secret is safe with me!"

Beverly followed the woman, horror still filling her eyes. "Secret for about one minute," she sighed - then looked at Picard. "We'll be lucky if the entire town doesn't know by lunch. How did she figure it out?"

He shook his head as he took his place at the table once more. "I don't know - but I do know that she isn't going to be telling this tale too far," he said.

"Oh?"

He shook his head. "I told her that if word gets out, then all those women who are signing up for the self-defense class might rethink the idea. Pat may be a matchmaker, but she's a businesswoman as well. She needs the school to be successful - and so do we," he added, taking Beverly's hand once again as he grew serious. "We're here for the long term, Beverly - and that means being able to survive on our own. We can't do that on what you make alone - but add that to my income from teaching, and the extra money from the self-defense classes and we'll be able to have enough funds to try a make a life - a real life - here. Perhaps even a future," he added.

The harshness of their situation came crashing back on Beverly, returning her to grim reality after a night of romantic fantasy.

"It's not the life we both thought we were going to have," he said, seeing her expression, "but... I will try to make it the best life I can." He half-rose from the seat, leaned forward - and after a cautious glance toward the window, kissed her soundly. "I'm going to go practice - and then I'm going for a long run, and then a very cold shower. And you should make sure you get a nap this afternoon, because I have some very interesting plans for this evening," he added with a wicked smile.

He kissed her again, then pulled away from the table, grabbed his coat and left the store, jogging back across the street to the school.

Stunned, Beverly rose slowly from the table, stacking up the used plates and saucers, and dazedly making her way back to the kitchen.

She started staking the used plated in the washer when Pat bustled back in, still grinning.

Beverly rose. "Pat?"

"Yes, dearie?"

"How did you know?"

"Not from you, if that's what's troubling you," she assured Beverly.

"Then how? John has years of experience as a negotiator..."

"John might be brilliant at talking about business - but he's a novice at love," she replied. "Every day he comes in here, looking at you with this expression of ravenous hunger. He wanted you so badly that he could taste it. But today? There wasn't a trace of hunger in those eyes. Either the two of you broke it off without a trace of regret on either side - or he got what he's been aching for. So... Was it worth the wait?" she asked knowingly.

Still dazed by the turn of events, Beverly sighed contentedly, murmuring, "Oh, yes," then hastily added, "I mean..."

Pat laughed. "I know what you mean, dear! But... your secret is safe with me. I need that school to be successful as much as you two do. Of course, all we really have to do is parade him about in that suit he wore yesterday, and all the ladies in town will be tearing down the door in order to sign up - or to get their kids into class," she said.

"That sounds a bit like prostituting him," Beverly frowned.

"I wasn't really suggesting we do that, Beverly," Pat replied solemnly. "John's a man of great dignity and pride, and I won't do anything that would hurt him - but there's no mistaking that he's going to attract women. He's a handsome man, dearie. Can you live with the thought that there will be others who find him as attractive as you do?"

Beverly nodded. "They always have."

She nodded. "Just remember: it's you he waited for."

"I know."

Pat turned away again.

Beverly called after her. "Pat?"

"Yes?"

"When you two were talking, he said something that made you laugh. What was it?"

Pat looked at her, smiling. "I can't tell you, dearie - I'm sworn to secrecy. Now, let's see what we can make you two for supper. Something you can eat in bed, I think..."


	22. Chapter 22

February 28, 2011

With sober solemnity, Picard rose from his bed; it would have been inaccurate to say he woke, for he had not slept the night before, spending it instead in contemplation of all that had been - and all that was now gone.

He didn't bemoan this turn of fate; he had always known, even from the first day that he had joined the Academy, that one day, his life might be lost in the pursuit of this dream: to live and work among the stars. He had never, however, considered that his life among the stars might be lost even while his life itself continued on.

Those thoughts locked in his head, he moved from the bed to the bathroom, where he washed and shaved, preparing himself with the same care that he would for any important Starfleet event. For today at least, for this one last day, he was still a Starfleet captain.

He left the bathroom in silence, turning it over to Beverly wordlessly so that she could prepare herself as he had just done.

Heedless of the early morning chill in the apartment, he shed the heavy bathrobe, sitting on the edge of the bed as he pulled on his underwear and socks, then carefully drew on his uniform.

An idle thought passed by: by all rights, it should have been a dress uniform, he considered - though in this thought, and this thought alone - he was not displeased by the fact that the only Starfleet uniforms left to them were the more comfortable duty suits they routinely wore. He wanted to mourn this passing, not wanting even a moment's surcease from his grief by the realization that the end of that life had even the smallest of benefits.

Beverly emerged from the bathroom a moment later, her hair still wet from the ancient shower that was now a part of their daily lives. With a careless and efficient twist of her wrist, she knotted it behind her, pinning it into place, then reached for the uniform that lay across her side of the bed.

In equal silence, she quickly dressed, slipped her feet into the warm boots of her winter gear then glanced at Picard.

He nodded, easing his winter coat onto his shoulders, securing it against the sharp winds that were current rattling the small windows over their bed, watching as Beverly put on her coat as well, then reached for his hat and gloves just as she did.

No bags containing thermoses of coffee or tea today; this was not a journey about refreshments or even nourishment. There would be time for that later. For now, Beverly picked up only her tricorder bag, watching as he lifted a borrowed backpack to his shoulders, then moved down the stairs.

He followed and they exited the school into the still blackness of the early morning.

The road before the school was silent; the noisy traffic of cars, trucks and people were still hours away. Crossing the road, they made their way to the bike path that followed the river; having traveled it so many times in the last few weeks, neither had bothered to bring a flashlight with them, knowing the path before them almost as well as they knew their new home.

Still, he was grateful that the snow predicted for the night before had not yet fallen; though the river had thawed sufficiently to prevent anyone from mistaking it for a road, they had traversed the pathway often enough to know that a light coating of snow or rain turned the asphalt slick - and a fall was not what he wanted to face this morning.

This morning, of all mornings, he wanted everything to be... right.

He wanted it to end... correctly. With honor. With dignity.

After two hours of walking, side by side in stony silence, the slowly rising sun began to illuminate the west side of the river valley - and as the stone slowly began to warm, he could hear the faint sound of stone cracking.

This was only right as well, he thought; between the cold of the night, the sharpness of the wind and weather, and the heat of the rising sun, no one would find anything untoward in another small landslide - should they even hear it, he added, knowing that few houses were anywhere in sight or sound of their goal.

Turning off the path, he followed the faintly outlined path of their previous journeys up and down the steeply sloped walls, following the ravine until it ended sharply at a recent slide of loose stone, then scrambled up that wall. From time to time he glanced behind him, confirming that Beverly was following him - but never offering her a hand or a word.

Slowly, the angle of the wooded area grew shallower, allowing the trees to grow in greater profusion – the only thing that had kept the shuttle sheltered from the view of the occasional passerby. It was possible, Picard had considered, that those same trees would continue to mask the ship's presence for some time – perhaps even for years, he thought – but the presence of fallen trees at the bottom of the ravine had shown that reasoning to be hopeful at best, and catastrophic at worst.

Indeed, their crash – and the severe storms the area had endured this winter – had probably resulted in the death of some of the very trees that had sheltered the ship – though the results might not be visible for several more months.

Or only several more weeks, he reminded himself. Spring was not a season in this area, Gy had told him, but more of a brief interim between winter and summer; there were years when it came on in a leisurely fashion, with day upon lengthening day of slowly warming temperatures, blooming flowers and slowly greening plants and trees. More often than not, however, the change of seasons was more sudden, going from bitterly cold to tropical in a matter of days – and with it, the sudden wealth of new life.

Knowing that time was not on their side, he and Beverly had diligently traveled to and from the shuttle over the last few weeks, emptying it of every resource they could, recharging their equipment – even using some of the power reserves to replicate the drugs and medical equipment of their own time.

Picard had frowned at the idea when Beverly had broached it – then recanted when she asked how he was going to explain his artificial heart to a physician of this time, should he ever seek medical care from another doctor.

They had left intact the hull, the engines – and just enough of the control systems to drive the ship deeper several hundred feet into the loose rock of the river valley. According to the calculations they had made, the weight of the rock should crush the ship – but even if it didn't, the loose rock would serve to conceal it until erosion finally revealed the vessel… in several hundred years by which point a damaged and aged shuttle would provoke questions - but would not damage the timeline significantly.

Clambering over a fallen tree, Picard finally spied the mound of fallen branches that they had used to camoflauge the ship from any off-season traveler in the area. Slowing, he stared at the ship, then drew a deep breath, approached it and began to remove the branches.

Beverly joined him a moment later; freeing the last of the branches from the back of the ship, they stared at the door in silence – then Picard touched the control panel.

With a heavy groan, the failing hydraulics shifted the mass of the door upward, reminding Picard that if the door were to close on either – or both of them – they would be trapped – and this time, there would be no escape possible.

Finding a stout branch, he wedged it against the door; on its own it wouldn't support the mass of the door – but it would keep it from closing completely, allowing the trapped inhabitant to ease himself – or herself – out – then entered the shuttlecraft.

To his dismay, Beverly followed him.

"You should stay clear. If the door fails…" he said quietly.

"Which it will," she pointed out. "There's not enough power to support the hydraulics for long. We need to move fast – which means we need to work together. I'll set the launch codes, you program the navigation system and the tractor beams," she said.

They worked in silence for several minutes, then Picard touched a control. "That's it. I've set a small charge to make sure that a small rock slide covers the ship – but we need to get clear so we're not caught in it." He rose from the pilot's chair quickly – but his hand lingered on the back of it for just a moment.

Then he pulled his hand away, and moved to the open back door, stepping back and waiting for Beverly to join him. Pulling the supporting tree branch back, he heard the hydraulics try to absorb the strain – then watched as gravity took its toll.

The door fell shut, moving slowly but inexorably, finally closing with a leaden thud.

Picard stared at the vessel for a long moment – then gestured to Beverly, leading her away.

Five hundred feet away they stopped and solemnly they turned to face the shuttle.

This is it, Picard thought to himself. Do this – and we're committed to this world, this time…

This life.

He glanced at Beverly, but her eyes were locked on the shuttle.

I didn't mean for this to happen, he thought to her. I didn't mean for you to end up working at a coffeeshop four hundred years in our own past. All I ever wanted for you was to be the professional success you were, to be a good officer, to enjoy your life…

All I wanted for you was to be happy.

He looked back to the shuttle, then glanced down at the controller in his hand.

"Are you ready, Beverly?" he asked quietly.

She nodded wordlessly.

He touched the control.

He touched the control.

In relative silence, the shuttle lifted itself slowly, straining against the weight of gravity, its sabotaged engines softly groaning with the effort. At Picard's touch, the great machine hovered in place, then the tractor beams pushed aside the loose rock, creating a small passage for the ship to enter.

As the ship slowly moved forward, the loose rock began to slide down, slowly covering the entry where the ship had passed. Through the dust that the falling rocks kicked up, Picard watched the slow progress of the vessel until the faint morning sum no longer reached the ship; blindly, he allowed it to continue forward for another few minutes, then stopped the propulsion system and allowed the ship to settle, for the last time, onto solid earth.

His finger hovered over the power system control, however, reluctant to shut it off this one last time, unwilling to put an end to their last link with their lives.

But to leave this ship only partially buried was to leave open the possibility that it would be found too soon - and not only risk the lives of their future selves - but perhaps to risk the lives they were not committed to facing.

If the ship were ever found...

If it were found, he thought, there would be those who would laugh it off as nothing more than an elaborate practical joke, a hoax perpetrated by some unknown individual poking fun at the ever-present believers who proclaimed that every odd light in the night sky was a visiting alien, and that every fallen stalk of corn was proof of celestial visitations. For the most part, if nothing was found that was out of the ordinary, it would eventually be dismissed as nothing more than a prank - and to that very end, he and Beverly had been as careful as possible to remove everything that would suggest the vessel was anything beyond a carefully planned joke.

But there would also be those who did not laugh it off as easily. Conspiracists and the paranoid weren't unheard of in this society - and given enough publicity, even a truly innocent prank could be taken as fact. If someone looked too carefully, or for too long, it might not take people a long time to realize that two strangers had come among them at the same time as the ship had landed.

He glanced at Beverly - then looked back to the control and pressed the button.

No noise filled the air; no explosions rocked the earth. Instead there was only the faint sigh of the shuttle's propulsion system shutting down, then the faint rattle of rocks and stones that had been held in place, away from the ship, settling back into place. Even the cloud of dust and dirt that the moving rocks shed was insignificant, sheltering them from the direct view of the fate of their ship.

And so it ends, he thought quietly, not with a bang, but with a whisper and a sigh.

He looked to his friend, his lover, her eyes bright with tears unshed.

Forgive me.

The journey back was made in the same silence of grief and mourning; as they reached the stairway that led from the river's edge to the street, they moved wordlessly to the school's doors, then up the stairs to the apartment.

Taking off her uniform, Beverly studied it thoughtfully. In another time, she would have put it in storage or in stasis, another reminder of a part of her life that had now passed - but here and now, practicality won over nostalgia; the pants were warm and would last for a long time, the boots durable and perfectly fitted. The tunic, however...

She folded the long shirt carefully, placed it in the bottom drawer of the small dresser that they shared, then closed the drawer.

"You've got class in two hours," she said, quietly stirring the pensive man from his reverie. "Would you like to get something to eat before that?"

He shook his head. "I'm not hungry," he answered softly. "I'm going to get changed, then review the class plan for today," he added.

Beverly nodded in response, knowing that the task was make work, at best - but also knowing the man well enough to know the gentle dismissal for what it was. "Then I'm going to go over to the shop and check in with Pat."

He nodded again, not registering what she had said.

She smiled sadly, then moved close to him, putting one arm at his waist as she faced him, then moved closer to kiss him before she left.

It was meant to be nothing more than a chaste and gentle kiss for a dear friend who was hurting - and, indeed, it was met hesitantly at first, almost reluctantly.

The reluctance was quickly swept away as other, rawer, baser emotions swept over the man. Fear, anger, grief - all washed over him in an instant - and in that instant, he pulled Beverly down to the floor, pushing aside her clothes and his as need and desperation flooded over him.

Their coupling was fierce, driven by emotions he had kept in check for so long; his love for her, his own fear of his inadequacies and weaknesses, the loneliness...

The loneliness.

Dear God, the loneliness, he thought even as the first wave of release washed over him. To be alone in Starfleet had been one thing - but a thing he could justify, rationalize: a captain had his duty to his ship and crew before himself. That no woman could love him - that Beverly could not love him, he told himself brutally - didn't matter, because he could not permit himself the luxury of having a relationship.

But in this place, in this time, there were no excuses; here, he would be alone, with no one to turn to, no one he knew, or trusted - and with no claim of rank or position to assuage his certainty of his own inadequacies.

Beverly's having come to him as a lover meant nothing, he told himself; she had simply been as scared and lonely and afraid as he had been, and had turned to him in that moment - and out of that same loneliness had continued the relationship.

Now, though, now with their commitment to spending the rest of their days in this world, she was freed from that obligation; she could move on to find someone worthy of her love, someone who...

Someone who wouldn't take her so far from her home and strand her there.

Dear God, how she must hate me, he thought. I killed her husband - and now I've stolen her future.

Wracked with grief and doubt, he pulled away from her abruptly, turning away, hating himself for having ruined her life...

For a stunned moment, Beverly lay on the floor beside him, confused and bewildered by the last few minutes - then slowly sat up, making her way to his side.

"Jean-Luc..."

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Beverly, I'm so sorry..."

It took her a moment to realize that he was crying - then instinct won out over reason. She put her arms around him, pulling him close to her. "It's all right, Jean-Luc; it's all right."

"No," he insisted. "It's not. It shouldn't have been like this..."

"No, it shouldn't," she agreed patiently. "But it was. And it is. And... we'll make the best of it," she added.

To her surprise, however, he shook his head again - then looked at her tearfully. "No. No. We don't have to. I do. You... you deserve better than this, Beverly, better than me."

She pulled back, astounded. "What are you saying, Jean-Luc?" she asked, almost angrily.

"That... this was a mistake," he managed.

"What was a mistake?" she replied, growing heartsick.

"This... us..."

"What?"

"You deserve better. Better than this; better than me... If we hadn't crashed here, then..."

She stared at him in utter astonishment. "You mean that you think I only made love with you, only told you that I love you, because we're stuck here - together?" she raged angrily - then, to her amazement and his, she began to chuckle.

He pulled back, staring at her. "Beverly..." he tried.

She shook her head. "For being such a smart man, you can be so very stupid, Jean-Luc," she sighed - then leaned toward him, kissing him gently. "Jean-Luc, you of all people should know that I do what I want to do. We're here, now, because you're you, Jean-Luc, and not because I'm scared and lonely and desperate." She moved closer to him. "I love you, Jean-Luc. I have for so many years. That I didn't do something about it years ago is something I'll regret for the rest of my life - but that we're here together... I don't regret that at all."

She began to stand, then reached for his hand, helping him up as well - then to his amazement, led him to their bed.

"Beverly..."

"I love you," she repeated. "Now... I think we have some unfinished business to attend to."

This time, their lovemaking was slower, unfrenzied, filled with soft whispers and promises of love, until need and desire - then glorious pleasure - filled them both.

Later, still wrapped in one another's arms, Beverly whispered against his chest,

"Jean-Luc?"

"Mmmm," he answered in sated contentment.

"Don't doubt yourself again."

"Never."

"And don't ever doubt me."

"Never."


	23. Chapter 23

March 8

Beverly sat in the parent's area of the do-jahng, the laptop perched - appropriately - on her lap.

She had to admit that the level of technology in this society surprised her; she had known from Gy's comments that computers abounded here, but somehow, she had thought them to be the massive, room-sized conglomerations of tubes and wires, with specialized heating and cooling systems, manual programming cards and magnetic tape feeds that she had seen in her history classes at the Academy.

Instead, he had turned over a device that was only slightly larger than her own padd - and while not as quick in its computing and processing speeds, she knew that that was simply a matter of need, not of capability; for handling the day-to-day bookkeeping jobs at the school, Gy didn't need a 'fancy-ass' computer, as he had so eloquently described the faster machines.

She looked at the stack of papers that occupied the chair next to her, picked up the top one and tried to decide what expense account fit the receipt, entered it into the computer - then glanced up at the class instructor.

By all rights, this should have been one of Jean-Luc's tasks, but somehow he had charmed into taking on this responsibility.

'Somehow', she chuckled to herself - as if there was a mystery to how he had pawned off the odious task; he had simply waited until they were in bed, in the midst of love-making, then had asked at a moment when she would deny him nothing - including organizing and entering the two year's of old receipts that he had found in the office desk drawer.

Two could play at that game, she reminded herself - but using Jean-Luc's passions to get what she wanted wasn't something that she intended to do - unless, of course, she really needed to, she added with a self-satisfied smile. For the moment, she preferred to use their nights together to help him work through the difficult transition from Starfleet office to citizen of twenty-first century Earth.

It had been a difficult process; a man already prone to introspection and melancholy, Jean-Luc had drawn into himself further than he had even after his assimilation by the Borg and his imprisonment by the Cardassians. Fortunately for her - and for him - he didn't have the privilege of being self-absorbed during his daily encounters with his students. More significantly, his interactions with the children seemed to bring out a part of him that he rarely showed: a lighter nature, graced with more smiles and more laughs.

Smiles and laughs that he brought to their bedroom after class, she added with a satisfied sigh. Afterwards, they would often just lie together in the dark of their room, talking over what was gone from their lives, cleansing their souls in an atmosphere of unrepentant and unqualified love.

Wild, abandoned sex and children, she mused; it was a good thing that Deanna had never spotted these two vulnerabilities in the man's façade, or his counseling sessions would have been very different.

He must have seen her looking at him, for he glanced up from where he was helping one of the younger girls working on her front kick and granted her a smile. A small one, of course, for he was in the middle of his work - but a smile nonetheless.

And one that every student in the school saw.

One of the older boys - Robert, she remembered - groaned. "Mr. John's making googly-eyes at Miss Beverly AGAIN!" he complained loudly.

The other children looked at Jean-Luc, then at here, then, as a group, all made a playful whooping sound - one that clearly was intended to poke fun at them, she knew.

"Excuse me?" Picard said as the howl faded. "Did you raise your hands and get permission before speaking?" he asked them all.

There was a uniformed study of the ground before them as they silently admitted their error.

"One lap around the room," he chided them gently, then, as they began to run, made his way to her.

"I can do this upstairs, if you'd like," she offered as he crouched low before her.

"Not at all - unless, of course, you'd prefer to," he replied. "I thought, however, with Mr. Grancher starting his training today that you might be more comfortable..."

"I'm not afraid of him, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "What he did was... unfortunate, but I have to believe that it was a mistake in judgment, born out of desperation - not because he's inherently a bad person. Nonetheless, I will close this up in a few minutes. Your women's self-defense class is next - and I don't want to get in between you and your...harem," she teased.

"Beverly," he began, his low baritone voice sending a shiver up her spine - and through other parts of her as well, "most of them are happily married..."

"They're married, not dead," she said bluntly." And even if they have no intention or desire to stray, that doesn't mean that can't fantasize. Heaven knows I did," she added, her voice growing low and husky.

His eyes grew dark. "Indeed. Perhaps we should discuss some of those fantasies a little later? After our run tonight?" he added.

She smiled. "Sounds delightful - but for now, I leave you to the whims of those other fantasies - and to your students."

He frowned, then followed her gaze to where the children, having completed the brief lap, were now standing, waiting impatiently - then looked back at her. "I'll be looking forward to our run," he said, "and," he added in a voice soft and low, "what follows it."

He rose, and standing, gave her a splendid - if unintentional - view of his physical attributes. Somehow, she thought, the loose-fitting, heavyweight pants, which should have obscured his masculinity, did quite the opposite, the faint outlines hinting tantalizingly at what lay beneath.

It was intensely exciting, she thought - a fact that she knew the other women had recognized as well - even if Jean-Luc was completely oblivious to that fact.

To her disappointment, he nonchalantly straightened his do-bahk jacket, obscuring her view, then turned to face his class again. Calling out a set of directions, he gathered the youngsters around him and began a new set of drills - which, to her delight, sent them running off with yells of delight.

And you thought you weren't good with children, she mused to herself.

She entered a few more receipts into the computer, then collected the remaining pieces of paper, preparing to put them away until she could complete the task another day. She had, for the moment, other, more important concerns - chiefly, dinner.

To her dismay, both she and Jean-Luc were continuing to lose weight, as they had since their arrival on this world. Short of a full body scan, which would deplete their limited tricorder power reserves, she had fallen back on the tried and true methodology of observing her patients and trying to treat the symptoms rather than focusing on the disease - if it were a disease.

Certainly a portion of it was shock and grief, she knew; intellectually, they had both accepted the fact that this world was their new - and now permanent - home, but emotionally, they were still addressing the sequelae of that realization. Jean-Luc had always run to the lean side, she knew; they had shared enough breakfast and dinners for her to know that he was never a big eater, but since their arrival here, his appetite - at least for food, she reminded herself - had waned noticeably.

Of course, she added as she closed the computer, that could be a part of it as well; not only was he eating less, but they were both indulging in quiet a lot of intense physical activity lately.

But then again, she was eating less as well; her appetite was nowhere near what it had been before the accident - even though she was expending more energy than she had when they were in their own time.

That, she thought, and the length of time it had taken them to recover physically from accident itself as well as the fall in the river.

There was something unquestionably wrong with them both, she sighed. Whether I can cure it by treating the symptoms is another matter entirely.

A run tonight would definitely not be the best idea, she decided; perhaps an exceptionally tasty - and caloric - meal instead - though convincing him to indulge in a bigger meal might be problematic.

Then again, my dear captain, turnabout is fair play - and I'm sure I can think of a few ways to whet your appetite, she decided, then slid the laptop into its bag, deposited everything to the small office at the back of the school, took her coat and headed for the door.

As she reached the twin red doors, a young man of average height, neatly groomed and looking more than a little uncertain, reached the top of the long flight of stairs. In his hand was bundled a mass of white fabric, and the long white tail of a belt fell loose from between the folds.

Hesitantly, he stepped toward the school doors - but upon seeing Beverly, he stopped.

He looked at her for a moment, then turned his gaze downward, ashamed, uncertain of what to say.

"Mr. Grancher?" Beverly said quietly.

He continued to stare intently at the floor. "Uh... I'm kinda early... Gy... Mr. Edrickson... said I'm supposed to take a class. He gave me this uniform..."

"I know, Mr. Grancher," she said. "You're a little early, but that will give you time to complete the paperwork. If you'll come with me," she said, leading him through the doors and back to the small office.

After a moment's search, she found the forms that the young man needed to complete, then vacated the single chair in the small room, gesturing for him to take it. Uncomfortably, he took the chair, looking blankly at the papers she had placed before him.

She watched him for a moment, puzzled at his reluctance. "Mr. Grancher, forgive me if I'm being rude, but... You can read, can't you?"

He nodded, the motion short and clipped. "Yeah. I graduated from high school. Even went to college for a while...that is, until my parents split up..."

Beverly nodded to herself. "I just need you to complete this section here, then sign here and..."

He looked up abruptly, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm real sorry, ya know. About what happened... About what I did," he amended an instant later. "I..." A single tear fell down his cheek; as he felt its hot trail, he brushed it away angrily.

"Mr. Grancher... Fred... We all make mistakes," she replied gently. "All of us. We all have moments when we forget that we're not alone, and we act from fear and desperation. It takes strength to be afraid, but not let it guide your actions. That's why you're here - because Gy and John believe that when you learn that you can be strong in who you are, you'll be better ready to take your own place in the world."

Fred nodded, then reached for the pen. As he started to write, however, Beverly saw a tear hit the paper. For a moment, her heart went out to the young man - then she choked back the emotion.

This man - all these people - are going to be dead in a few years, she reminded herself harshly. You can't allow yourself to become too involved with them. Maintain your professional detachment, she chided herself.

"Take your time," she told him. "When you're done, you can change clothes in the changing room in the hallway, then come out on the floor. Gy should be here shortly."

The man nodded again, then with an audible sniff, started to write.

Beverly watched him for a moment, then pulled her coat around her more tightly as she made her way toward the door once more.

It wasn't right, she thought angrily... these people don't deserve to die - not without a chance! But it was what had to be if the future they knew was to remain unchanged.

Wasn't it? Wasn't it?

First things first, Beverly, she reminded herself quietly. Even if you can't save them, you have to save yourself and Jean-Luc.

But no one said it had to be an 'either-or' situation, she added.

Her mind racing, she pulled her coat tightly around her then hurried down the stairs and across the street to the shop.

Jean-Luc tightened the laces on his running shoes then straightened, adjusting his sweatpants and sweatshirt then pulled on his jacket. Closing the zipper, he reached for his hat and gloves then glanced up the stairs to the apartment again.

_Come on, Beverly,_ he thought wordlessly, then jogged in place for a moment before dropping into a lunge, stretching out the muscles in his legs.

It had been a long and tiring series of classes, but he could see real progress in all of his students - and in himself. Still learning some of the basics from Gy, he focused on teaching only the lower forms to the younger students, using the practices with them to continue to develop and refine his own techniques - and, he had discovered quickly, realizing how different the mind and learning styles of a child were from those of his adult students.

The adults wanted perfection in what they were doing, drilling diligently and repetitively, with little guidance needed from Gy or from him - and they were more than willing to spend days or weeks on a single technique rather than moving on too quickly - though sometimes they drilled themselves so long that they effectively prevented themselves from moving ahead.

Children, on the other hand, weren't nearly so patient, he had learned quickly. They wanted to learn quickly - and have quick results. Part of that attitude, Gy had explained, was brought about by the culture in which they lived - though Gy hadn't said that in those words; instant gratification was the byword for many of these children, and the very idea that they would have to work to achieve something was completely foreign to them.

And very definitely, Picard realized, not what they wanted.

Patiently he would explain something over and over to a child, only to realize that his words had no meaning; he simply was not speaking a language they could understand.

Joyfully, however, his refusal to yield to the children on their demands and resulted in no tears or tantrums - and, he added, no parents removing their children from the school. Indeed, they seemed to appreciate his determination to abide by the program's rules and regulations - and to hold their children to those guidelines, even when they either couldn't or wouldn't.

And, he added, glancing at the attendance board, it might have even gained them a few new students; six new white cards were staked in the rack this week, marking the point where Gy now had fifty children and eighteen adults paying for classes. And thirty who didn't, he added.

Children whose parents were reduced to living in homeless shelters, parents without jobs... Gy never said 'no', Picard had learned - though he wasn't above asking them to pitch in where they could or trade their talents for their children's tuition. Gy even tutored some of the children on their basics, working with one boy who was adept in writing and spelling, but couldn't grasp numbers, helping another girl who was having a dreadful time with her Spanish. Fortunately, Picard thought, the study of French was not in vogue at the moment, or he might have been drafted into tutoring those students.

Not that he would really have minded, he added wordlessly; watching the lights go on in a child's eyes as comprehension dawned was a wonderful thing, whether it was when they grasped the idea of addition, or spelling - or the difference between a back fist and a low block.

He chuckled to himself; once I dreaded the idea of being with children; now I find myself enjoying it.

But rewarding as it was, it was also exhausting - and these nightly, post-class runs with Beverly was one of his preferred methods of working off that fatigue - and working up his other appetite - for dinner - and bed.

In retrospect, he wondered why he had once resisted the idea of forming a monogamous, committed relationship with Beverly - or with anyone, for that matter. The companionship, the closeness, the ability to have someone there with whom he could talk and share his concerns, his thoughts, his emotions - and for whom he could serve as the same thing - why hadn't he sought this out earlier? he asked himself.

But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. Here, now, having this relationship was possible - indeed, necessary - but back on the Enterprise, the needs of the ship and the call of duty would have always been his first priority. It had to be; too many people depended on him - and that meant he couldn't allow himself to be concerned with the needs of one of them over the rest. Oh, Beverly would have certainly understood, he knew - but it would have been a relationship with limitations and restrictions.

And, he now knew, that wasn't what he wanted.

What he wanted, he added, was to go running, eat dinner - and make love. And given their earlier conversation, dinner was entirely optional in his opinion.

"Beverly! Are you coming?" he called up the stairs, jogging in place as he waited.

"Not yet," she replied, her voice strained as it drifted down the stairway to him.

Troubled by odd tone of her voice, he put his gloves and hat on the table by the stairs, and quickly climbed the narrow flight to their room, turned the corner - and stopped.

She half-lay, half-sat on the bed, her back propped up by pillows piled against the wall, partially covered by a sheet that she held against her breasts with one hand, while the other hand, obscured by the sheet, rested at the juncture of her legs. With her sprawled out in such a lovely display, he barely noticed the dinner dishes arranged on the nightstand beside the bed.

"Beverly?" he managed in a hoarse voice.

She looked at him plaintively. "I think I need your help," she said in a breathy voice as he concealed hand began to move.

He stared at her in stunned astonishment - then grabbed his keys and quickly hurried down the stairs.

Startled, Beverly froze, worried that she had somehow shocked or offended him - and listened in astonishment as she heard the front doors of the school close behind him, then the quickly fading sound of him heading down the main stairs and to the front door.

She started to rise from the bed - then heard the sound of his footsteps returning up the stairs, the sound of the door latch being thrown, then saw the school lights go out. A moment later, she heard the thump of his shoes hit the landing, then the soft patter of his step as he came up the last set of stairs. Returning the keys to their resting spot, he pulled off his jacket, dropping it to the floor, the crawled over the bed to where she lay.

Pulling the sheet down, he smiled at the sight of her naked body - then looked up at her eyes. "I think I see the problem," he said, as he moved her lower hand away.

"Oh?" she murmured. "Can you help?"

"Perhaps. This may take some time, however," he added in a cautionary tone.

"Oh, good," she sighed.

Grinning, he pushed her back against the pillows, and began to kiss her.


	24. Chapter 24

March 11

Beverly looked up as the bell on the front door chimed. She managed a faint smile as Jean-Luc entered, reaching her hand across the counter, seeking out his touch.

To her surprise, he took the hand, then leaned over the counter, pulling her close, embracing her as tightly as the distance would allow.

"And so it begins," he whispered to her.

Beverly nodded back, burying her head against his shoulder - then drew a deep breath and pulled back. "I never was much for ancient history," she admitted. "I didn't realize what today was - until Pat came in and told me what had happened."

Picard glanced around the room; noting that it was, for the moment, free of customers, he raised a brow in question at his lover.

She answered wordlessly, shedding her apron as she made her way to the far side of the counter, then reaching for his hand once more, guided him to a small couch that faced the front window. "We're alone; Pat went out to deliver an order."

Picard's brow raised once more - but this time in pleased amusement. "Business is picking up?"

Beverly sighed. "Far more than the economic reports would suggest. Pat says it's because I'm a good draw - that the customers like talking to me..."

"Pat's customers are exceptionally perceptive," Picard agreed.

She smiled at the compliment, then continued, "But I think there's more to it than that. The price of gasoline means more people are walking rather than driving - which makes a trip up to Randall Road just to get a cup of the chain coffees a more expensive proposition. We're convenient, friendly..."

"You're beautiful..."

She stopped in mid list, smiling at him - but there was a hint of sadness beneath the smile. "I'm sorry Jean-Luc. I know you're upset about this, and I'm prattling on about the shop."

He gave her a quizzical look - and earned a smile in return.

"I know you, Jean-Luc, she explained. "I know you're worried. You walked in here and hugged me - without first checking to see if anyone is around. You never do that. You always look first - and then decide if a public display of affection is permissable," she pointed out. "That you didn't do so this time just tells me how deeply today's events are bothering you."

He sighed, wondering if he was truly that transparent - or if it was simply that she did know him that well.

"You can't blame me, Beverly," he countered with a deep sigh. "We both know that the Tohoku earthquake and tsunami - and the damage to the Fukushima nuclear power plant and the resultant disaster - led to the destabilization of the Japanese government. In the chaos that resulted, the Japanese economic infrastructure, which helped support the world economy, collapsed - and on the heels of so many years of warfare, economic strife and political insecurity, the world governments reacted... badly," he concluded with a sigh.

"Yes - but there were other factors as well," Beverly reminded him.

"Agreed," Picard replied, "but historians considered this event to be the turning point. If the power plant hadn't..."

He was interrupted by the sight of Pat, dressed in a heavy winter coat, puffing her way up the sidewalk toward the front door. With a quick warning glance at Beverly, he rose from the couch, stepping to the door and opening for the woman.

"Oh, thank you, John. You're a dear," she said as she entered, stomping her feet to shake off the last of the snow from her feet then brushing off the light dusting of powder from her coat.

Beverly rose as well. "Everything went all right with the delivery?" she asked.

"No problems," Pat replied easily - then frowned at Beverly. "Why? Did they call? Was there a problem?" she asked worriedly.

"No," Beverly answered. "You're just a little pale. Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine, dearie," she replied blithely. "It's just cold out today - and unlike you two, I didn't have someone to keep me warm last night. I'm just happy that I didn't find you two going at it here in the front window."

Pat smiled as Picard's face blazed red. "Ahem. Well, yes... Beverly, I should be going..."

"Oh, John," Pat sighed, "when are you going to learn how to relax and take a joke?"

Probably never, Beverly thought to herself - although on this topic, she sympathized with Jean-Luc's discomfiture. Now that Pat was aware of her relationship with Jean-Luc, she had thought the constant teasing would end, but if anything else, it had intensified - albeit only when Jean-Luc was present.

Of course she did, she decided a moment later; it was one of my favorite pastimes on the Enterprise. How can I blame Pat for enjoying the same thing? Then again, unlike Pat, she respected the man well enough to keep some topics sacrosanct - like his sex life.

But did I not discuss it out of respect, she wondered - or jealousy? Maybe I didn't tease him about it because I didn't want to know about what he was doing with other women - and what he wasn't doing with me.

Oblivious to Beverly's ruminations, Pat motioned for the two to sit down; pulling a nearby chair close to the couch, she shed her coat and sat down across from them. "I'm glad you stopped by, John. I needed to talk to you two about something."

Picard raised a brow as Beverly leaned forward in concern. "Oh?"

Pat nodded. "Now, I know you two came here without anything beyond the clothes on your back and Beverly's bag. No money, no credit cards - no identification. No driver's licenses," she added.

Picard pulled back in concern. "Pat, if this is about the money that you've extended to us, I assure you..."

Pats' eyes widened in surprise - and she gave a hearty chuckle. "Money? Oh, heavens, John, it's not about the money! For goodness' sake! You've repaid me – and then some! Since Beverly got here, our sales have more than doubled - and with her here, I can take off some time for myself! I'm going to bet that the numbers at the school are up as well; the students love you - and the ladies do, too," she added - then grinned at Beverly. "You make sure you keep him happy in bed, dearie - or someone else will!"

To Beverly's surprise, Picard pulled himself upright at the jibe, bristling at the insinuation. "Pat, I know you mean that in jest, but you must understand that I would never impugn Beverly's honor or denigrate my relationship with her by involving myself with another woman - and I don't find it amusing to even joke about such a possibility."

Pat straightened, taken aback by the firmness in the man's tone - then smiled, leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "God love you, John - and you too, Beverly. Why you two waited so long to get together is beyond me. All right, so no more teasing about you straying off with someone else," she agreed. "But that's neither here nor there. What I was trying to ask was about your driver's licenses. I assume you both drive - yes?"

"I do," Picard answered quickly, remembering that they had originally told Pat and Gy that their arrival had been due to an accident - true enough, he thought, though the accident had nothing to do with a car. Nonetheless, Picard had driven a car more than a few times when he had been playing one of his Dixon Hills holonovels, as well as similar Starfleet vehicles on various missions.

"We both do," Beverly chimed in quickly.

Picard gave her a questioning look, and received a smile in response. "Just because you've been chaufeurring me around for the last ten years doesn't mean I can't drive," she informed him, then looked at Pat. "But it has been some time," she added.

"That's no problem; Gy can take you out to the industrial park some Sunday and you can practice. But..." she sighed, "... we're going to have to get you both licenses - and without some ID, that's going to be a challenge."

Beverly looked at Picard, then back at Pat. "What type of identification do we need?"

"Well, if you had your old licenses, or something from the military, it would be easier," she sighed, looking at them hopefully – only to sigh when neither admitted to having the cards. "All right then. They'll want proof of address – but that's easily handled. Proof of identity might be harder – but a birth certificate would be a start. Do you think you can get them?" she added with surprised hopefulness.

No problem, Beverly thought to herself - providing you're willing to wait three hundred some years.

She looked at Picard - then looked back at Pat. "It may take a little time," she murmured. Long enough to research what birth certificates in this world looked like - and then to program the replicator to create them. Fortunately, creating two documents wouldn't strain their limited power supply, she added.

"Well, if you could get started on that, I'd appreciate it. I'd like to turn some of these deliveries over to you, Beverly - and maybe John can handle a few of them as well," she added hopefully.

Reaching for her coat, she stood up, gave a deep sigh, and slowly made her way toward the back of the shop.

Beverly watched her worriedly.

"You're not the only one who can read the other person," Picard said after Pat had moved out of ear shot. "You're worried about Pat."

She nodded. "She's not looking well today."

"She does look a bit tired - but you did say that she's been losing weight and increasing her exercise. Maybe she's overdoing it?" she suggested.

"Maybe," Beverly conceded uncertainly. "Nonetheless..."

Picard reached for her hand. "Beverly, we have limited tricorder power and medical supplies. As much as I care for Pat and appreciate all that she has done for us, you do need to allocate those power reserves to last us for... for the rest of our lives," he said softly.

She took his hand, reminding him wordless that the fate that had befallen them wasn't without its rewards.

He squeezed her hand in response.

"I know you're right, but at least I can ask Ralph to check on her, make sure she's not overdoing it - maybe take her in for a check-up..."

"Agreed. But we can't interfere in this timeline," he reminded her. "Things must play out the way they did, or the future that we knew won't be there."

"And...?" Beverly replied.

He looked at her. "And...?" he echoed.

"And if our future isn't there, then what?" she asked.

He gave her a perplexed look. "What are you suggesting, Beverly?"

"I've been thinking about it, Jean-Luc - and while temporal causality isn't my strong suit, well... if we came from the future, then that timeline exists. It has to - because that's where we came from."

"You're talking about a temporal paradox; that we can't change our own timeline, because it's existence is verified by our own," he replied. "That this must be an alternate timeline."

She nodded.

Picard sighed. "I know it's been theorized - that one can't travel back in time along one's own timeline, because at the moment you arrive, that very act changes the timeline - but it's only a theory. Starfleet created the Temporal Prime Directive because of that theory - because if it's wrong, if we act to change this timeline - we may be changing our own," he said. "It's not a risk we can take."

She reached for his hand, taking it her own. "Jean-Luc, there is no Temporal Prime Directive. There is no Starfleet. Not yet - and maybe not ever. This world is moving toward chaos, and there's no guarantee that our future is the one they're facing. We don't know this world's future, any more than they do. But as residents in this world, shouldn't we be acting to help it - and ourselves?"

He looked at her for a long time, then slowly shook his head. "Beverly, we're meddling in things we don't know anything about…"

"That never stopped you when you were the captain of the Enterprise," she reminded him softly. "Not even the Prime Directive stopped you; you always sought the best possible alternatives and did what you had to for the greater good.

"This world - our home - is the greater good now, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "If we are to live here, then don't we, in all good conscience, have to act accordingly?"

"Beverly..." he sighed.

The door chimed as a new customer entered, and Beverly rose from her couch. Before she started for the back of the store, however, she leaned over the couch and planted a kiss on Picard's cheek. "I know, Jean-Luc," she said softly. "Following Starfleet's regulations can be the easy way out - but you've never been one to take the easy way. It's one reason I love you. But... if you really believed we shouldn't interfere in this world, why did you go to all that effort to help Fred?" she asked him.

Smiling, she walked toward the counter, leaving Picard to his thoughts.


	25. Chapter 25

March 25

"Good night, sir," Gy called after the young child as the boy walked down the school stairs, adding a polite, "Good night, ma'am," to the boy's mother.

He smiled a moment longer, then, as the door closed, let the smile drop, sighed heavily, and turned to Jean-Luc. "Man, that was a class," he muttered softly.

"I thought it went quite well," Picard offered.

"Oh, it did - thanks to you - but that's the biggest class we've ever had. Forty-three students - and only the two of us to teach," Gy replied, sighing as he sank into one of the chairs in the parent viewing area. "Take a load off, John," he said, pointing to another of the chairs.

Picard took the proffered chair, but rather than reclining as ge was doing, kept himself more upright. "Have you considered requiring the students and their parents to either advise you of when they are coming to classes, or scheduling certain ages and ranks at specific times?"

"Of course. It's a standard practice - but until recently, there's been no need. I didn't have enough students to make it worth my time, or their effort. Now... well, now they're all used to being able to cherry-pick the days and times, and the kids have gotten used to being to skip a day now and then and make it up later. I'm not about to damage the goodwill I have with my long-time students just for my convenience," Gy said.

"Yes, but if the quality of the education suffers..."

Gy smiled, straightening slightly. "It's not suffering. Having you here is helping in part with that, you know - you're quite the disciplinarian, though I don't think the kids see that. No, they're more attentive, more focused, now that you're here."

"I hardly think that I'm the sole cause for that change, Gy," Picard declined politely.

Gy laughed. "Oh, I'm not giving you all the credit, John! But having a second, full-time instructor here has taken a lot of the burden off my shoulders so I've been able to do some real class planning and therefore get more accomplished in the classes. I'm not pulling ideas out of my ass at the last minute like I used to do - and it shows in the classes and in the kids."

He stopped for moment, glancing up at the clock, then back at Picard. "It's only seven-thirty; Ma and Beverly won't be back for another few hours."

Picard glanced up at the window to their apartment - then sighed as he accepted the fact that Beverly wasn't there. She had accepted - grudgingly - Pat's invitation to go shopping while he and Gy taught the evening's classes, and for the first time since they had become lovers, she would not be there, waiting for him, at the end of the class.

Waiting for him, he thought, almost laughing at the image of a domesticated Beverly standing at the top of the stairs, anxiously waiting for him to return home from work, a hot supper prepared and on the table. Few things could be further from the truth - but he had found himself looking forward to meeting with her after classes, talking with her about what he had done during the day, listening to her tales as well, their walks and runs along the river, the meals they shared, the lovemaking.

He sighed - then glanced up quickly as he realized that Gy had continued to speak, seemingly unaware of his companion's distraction. "...for a beer?"

Picard's brows raised. "Pardon?"

Gy grinned. "Earth to Picard. I say Beverly's name and you're off in la-la land. I said, how about we go over to O'Brien's and grab a beer?"

"Umm..." Picard began to demur.

"Man, don't tell me she's got you whipped," Gy complained. "I didn't take Beverly for being that kind of woman."

Whipped? Picard repeated silently. "Gy, Beverly would never strike another person..."

Gy's laugh interrupted his protest. "Not that kind of whipped, John - though I suppose if Beverly was into leather..." He thought for moment then shook his head quickly. Beverly was a beautiful woman, and while he wasn't into _that_ kind of thing, the thought of her in black leather and carrying a whip...

No, he told himself. I'm not going there. "I meant that I didn't think Beverly was the kind of woman who told you what you could and couldn't do. Like go out for a beer," he added with a grin.

"She isn't," Picard insisted.

"Then go change out of that do-bahk and let's head over the O'Brien's. Leave her a note. She can join us if she gets home early," he added.

"I appreciate the invitation, Gy, but we like to have our dinner together..."

Gy shook his head. "Hate to burst your bubble, John, but I'd put money on Mom insisting they have dinner on the way back. We're on our own tonight."

A wave of disappointment washed over Picard. It was one thing not having Beverly upstairs to share their evening together - but their dinners had become something... special, he thought.

It had only taken him a few days to realize that Beverly had enveloped their dinnertime into their lovemaking in order to entice him into eating more - and while he had quickly caught on to her ruse, he had found no reason to stop the practice. If anything, he had found the practice had prolonged their passions, forcing them to slowly savor one another's bodies as they savored the food that she brought to their bed.

The only drawback was that it was rare that they finished their dinner - or their passions - before midnight, which left Beverly only a few hours to sleep before she had to wake for her early morning shift at the coffeeshop. For the last few days, she had managed by catching a quick mid-afternoon nap - but that wasn't something that she could do for too long - and truth be told, it wasn't what he wanted for her either.

Which had made tonight, Friday night, one of their cherished times; Beverly didn't have to report to the shop in the morning, and while he had classes to teach, it wouldn't be until nine, allowing them both time to sleep in.

But, he sighed, she could hardly express her thanks and appreciation to Pat for taking them in and helping them for so long without occasionally sacrificing something - although in this case, they were both paying that price, he thought.

Nor could he properly thank Gy by declining the offer.

Indeed, he added, he could go one step further and repay him, in very small part, by buying the drinks.

Fifteen minutes later, the two left the school and walked across the street, busy with Friday night traffic, to the small pub.

Inside, the bar rang with noisy patrons roaring at the television situated over the bar.

Gy glanced at the screen, then shook his head. "Hockey - but it's not the Hawks. Let's get a table where it's not so loud," he decided, then smiled at the young woman who stood at the hostess' stand.

Grabbing two menus she guided them to a chair in the main bar, only to move close to Gy as he whispered in her ear. Nodding, she quickly led them away from the bar and into one of the smaller adjacent spaces.

"Will this do?" she asked as she pointed to a table.

"It's fine," Gy replied. "Could you ask the waitress to bring us a couple of Sam Adams?" Gy asked - then glanced at Picard as if seeking his agreement.

Not knowing what a Sam Adams was, Picard nodded, then followed Gy's lead in shucking off his coat and placing it on a wooden peg on the wall - clearly designed to serve as a coat rack in the small establishment. The two then quickly seated themselves as an older woman carrying a tray brought two bottles and two glasses to the table.

"Are you gentlemen ready to order?" she asked, pulling a pen and pad of paper from her apron.

"We're going to need a couple of minutes," Gy replied. "But we could use a plate of nachos while we're looking," he added. "Beef. And extra jalapenos?" he added, again looking to Picard for verification.

Again, the older man nodded uncertainly.

As the woman left, Gy took his bottle of beer and poured it carefully into the glass, letting the amber liquid slide along the side of the glass, preventing too much foam from developing.

Picard did the same, knowing that this was one task that hadn't changed since his time. He allowed the head of the beer to settle for a moment, then raised his glass to his friend. "Cheers," he offered.

Gy touched the edge of the glass with his own, then, as Picard took a generous swallow of the brew, Gy quickly drained the glass, smacked his lips and sighed contentedly as Picard watched in amazement.

"Damn, that's good," Gy sighed - then smiled reassuringly at his acquaintance. "Don't worry; I'm not going to get wasted. I've got to work tomorrow too," he said - then raised his hand, waving to the hostess once again. "Same again," he called to her.

"Another round!" Gy happily called out three hours later, then looked at Picard. "You'll have another one, right, John? he asked with a grin. "You're only on your second! I'm wa-a-a-ay ahead of you," he added.

"I appreciate the offer, but two is fine for me - and don't you think you've had enough for tonight, too?" Picard asked with gentle firmness.

"Not to worry, John, not to worry," the inebriated man replied. Looking around the room, he found the young woman who had been serving them throughout the evening and waved her over. "Ellie, my sweet - it was Ellie, wasn't it?"

"Sandra," the woman corrected him nervously.

"Sandra," Gy repeated blearily. "Sandra. That's a beautiful name, Sandra," he added, staring at the woman. "Almost as beautiful as you," he continued, smiling at her dreamily.

She smiled uncomfortably, then glanced at Picard beseechingly.

Picard looked at his friend. "Gy, you're making the young lady uncomfortable. Perhaps it's time to go home..."

"Nah," Gy replied amicably. "It's still early! It's Friday and we don't have to be at the school until nine and the place is open for another coupla hours, right, Ellie?" he asked the waitress.

She nodded with a tired sigh.

Glancing around the room, Picard realized that they were the last guests in the restaurant; there were still a few patrons in the bar area, but the bartender was serving that crowd; clearly the young lady was waiting for them to leave her section of the restaurant so she could depart for the night.

He sympathized with her; he was more than ready to leave as well.

Gy, however, clearly was enjoying himself and seemed to have no intentions of leaving before the place closed for the night. At least, Picard sighed, he was a pleasant drunk.

But even so...

"Gy, the young lady would like to leave for the night - and perhaps we should as well. As you said, we do have to work in the morning."

Gy grinned, gave Picard a friendly punch in the arm, the sat back in his chair. "That's hours away, John - we've got plenty of time! And Ellie, here... Ellie, I'll make it worth your while. Here's..." he reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and handed her all of his cash. "There. That should cover you for the night. Boy, I'd like to cover you," he added with a goofy smile.

"Gy," Picard said sharply, lowering his voice.

Gy looked at the woman, his expression falling. "I'm sorry, Miss Ellie... That's what we call the ladies at our school: Miss. Doesn't matter how old they are. We call them Miss. Even my mother. Miss Pat. Miss Beverly." he looked at Picard - then his smile widened. "That's why you're in a hurry to get home; you want to see Miss Beverly.

"You should go," he continued a moment later. "She's waiting for you, I'll bet - she's gonna be so mad that you're out..." he added sadly. "I'm sorry. I should have let you go earlier..."

He put his head down on the table, and Picard looked at the waitress. "I think we need the bill," he said quietly.

"Would like some coffee before you go?" she asked worriedly.

"No, no coffee," Gy murmured from the table. "Tea. Iced tea. Something cold," he insisted.

Sandra looked at Picard who gave a brief nod, then hurried away.

Turning his head to one side, Gy looked at Picard. "God, you're lucky, John. You've got Beverly. She's hot. You ever realize she doesn't call you John? She calls you _Jean_. All romantic and soft and French-like. It's hot. She's hot. Not to worry; I don't poach," he assured his friend. "But she's something more. She's... smart. No, not smart. Something else. Yes, smart, but something else, too. She thinks - and she's not afraid to let you know she's thinks. I like that. I like people who have opinions and stick up for them. Takes balls. That's what it is, John; Beverly's got balls. I like that in a woman," he added - then barked out a laugh. "No, no, I don't mean that. I mean..."

Picard understood the man's meaning: Beverly was a dynamic and powerful woman who knew what she wanted, and was intelligent and capable enough to get it - but with a strong sense of ethics and morals that focused that dynamic energy. In this time, they would say she was 'empowered' - but it was a term he loathed. It suggested that at some point she hadn't possessed that internal strength - that someone, somewhere, had given her those capabilities, when in fact she had always had them.

But in this time, this place, people were often repressed by the situations in which they found themselves - or by those around them. They weren't given the opportunity to demonstrate their innate abilities and talents, let alone use them to build a successful career - and a successful self. Perhaps it was not that different in their time, he admitted, but in Starfleet, one tended to see less of it than he found here. 'Empowerment' seemed to let people shine at their finest: at who and what they really were.

No wonder Gy found it exciting to find someone who valued herself as both a person and as a woman.

"I understand, Gy," Picard said sympathetically. "Beverly is her own person."

"That's it!" Gy announced. "That's why I like her. She's her own person. I want to find a woman who's her own person. Ellie! Are you your own person?" he shouted across the room.

Picard sighed, placed a restraining hand on the man's arm, and chided him quietly, "Gy, if you're trying to make an impression on the lady, I assure you that you're doing just that. But… it's not a good one."

Startled by the pronouncement, Gy looked at the approaching young woman with a shocked expression. "Ellie! Am I making a bad impression on you?" he asked pitifully.

She sighed, placed the tall glass of tea on the table, set a paper-wrapped straw beside it, then walked away.

"Ellie? Ellie?" he called after her plaintively.

"Her name is Sandra, not Ellie," Picard reminded him. "Why don't you drink your tea and we'll get you home?" he said.

"Home," Gy repeated dully. "Can't go home. Can't drive when I'm drunk - and I'm sooooo drunk," he said. He began to stand, stumbled slightly, then pulled his car keys from his pocket. "Take 'em."

"I can't drive," Picard reminded him.

"You've only had two beers!" Gy protested.

"That's not the problem. I don't have a license," he explained.

"S'right!" Gy said. "No problem. Ellie! Ellie, my love, would you call me a cab?" he yelled, then looked back to the table and smiled in befuddled amusement. "Tea! I love tea. Except for these things," he added, pulling the slice of lemon off the edge of the glass and squeezing it, the juice and a seed flying off into the air. "Lemons. You know what they say about lemons. When life gives you lemons..."

Picard sighed with increasingly diminishing patience. "Yes, I know. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

"No!" Gy announced. "That's NOT what you do! When life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade. Make life take the lemons back! Get mad! Tell life, 'I don't want your damn lemons! What am I supposed to do with these?' Demand to see life's manager. Make life rue the day it decided to give you lemons! 'Do you know who I am? I'm the man who's going to burn down your house down, with the lemons. I'm going to invent a combustible lemon that burns your house down!" he shouted loudly - then drained the glass of tea in a single gulp.

Slamming the glass onto the table, he grinned at Picard, laughed triumphantly - then fell face forward onto the table.

"Damn it, Gy," Picard sighed, then rose from the table and made his way to the waitress' station. "Excuse me, miss, but could you call a cab for my friend? He's not able to drive home."

"I'd be more than happy to," she said, "but it's after midnight. I don't think anyone will come out."

Picard sighed. While he had driven cars on the holodeck, his few experiences in the cars of this time had demonstrated that he would need to practice a bit before trying to drive one - and while two beers had not seemingly impaired his abilities, he knew the local police, quite correctly, took the matter of driving while intoxicated quite seriously.

That left two options: calling Pat and asking her to pick up her son - or letting the drunken man sleep off the beer on the couch at the school. Not a happy option, he thought, but the best one available.

Pulling some money out of his pocket, he placed it on the table, then reached for Gy's coat; despite the man's almost total unconsciousness, he managed to slide the man's arms into the sleeves, then put on his own, pulled Gy's arm around his shoulders and carefully lifted him.

To his surprise, as he reached the front door, he found the Sandra waiting for them - her coat on and a set of keys on her hand. "Come on. I'll drive you."

"Ma'am?" Picard relied, surprised.

"Mike," she nodded toward the bartender, "says your friend's a good customer – and he'll pay me to get him home safe. But no funny stuff – okay?" she added firmly.

"I assure you, you're completely safe - but there's no need. Gy can sleep it off at my apartment. We're just across the street," he added, pointing toward the school.

She followed his gesture - then looked at Picard. "You live at the karate school?" she asked in surprise.

"Taekwondo," he corrected gently. "And yes, I live in the apartment over the school. I teach the self-defense classes at the school. Gy," he glanced at his sleeping companion, "owns the school."

"No shit," she said, looking at the sleeping man, clearly surprised – and more than a little impressed. "He didn't seem the type."

"To teach martial arts?" Picard replied.

"To run a business," she countered. "Most of the guys in here can't hold a job, let alone run one."

"Two, actually," Picard corrected her. "He also owns and operates a construction business as well as teaching martial arts."

She looked at the man and shook her head. "Impressive – but I don't think he's teaching anything tomorrow," she informed him. "And I hope to hell he's not building anything, either."

Picard looked at Gy, then sighed as she realized she was right.

"It's no biggie, Slim," she continued. "My boss said to drive him home. Says he's a nice guy; I guess he's a nice enough drunk, at least compared to some of the guys in here. But no funny stuff from you, okay? I don't care if you teach karate, I'll kick your ass if you try anything - capisce?"

Picard nodded uncomprehendingly, then followed the woman out.

Opening the door to the front of the restaurant, she guided Picard and his burden to a small parking lot adjacent to the building. Holding open the back door of the vehicle, she watched as Picard maneuvered the body into the rear seat, the pushed Gy's legs in, and closed the door.

"You know where sleeping beauty lives?" she asked.

He recited the address, then added, "Straight down 25 from here."

She started the car, then turned out the parking space and headed down the street.

"Lemons," Gy chuckled sleepily from the back seat. "Combustible lemons," he sang out – then his voice trailed off into a faint snore.

"Cave Johnson," Sandra offered.

"Pardon?" Picard said.

"The lemon speech. It's from Portal 2," she said, then glanced at Picard and smiled. "It's a video game," she explained patiently, having decided that a man of Picard's age would have clue about such things. "The lemon speech is, like, a classic. Well, a classic that's been around for like a week. But it's like... iconic. Better than Portal; I mean, like, 'the cake is a lie'. What the fuck does that mean?" she asked.

Picard blinked, wondering how much of his inability to understand what she was saying was due to the two beers - and how much was simply a reflection of his being from another world and another time.

He made a non-committal noise, then pointed out the approaching turn.

They rode in awkward silence as she signaled the turn, then started up the steep road leading out of the river valley. "So, you been teaching long?" she finally aksed.

"A few weeks."

She smiled. "Not much of a conversationalist, are you?" she teased.

Picard managed a quiet laugh. "My apologies, miss."

"Apology's not needed - but it's either we talk or I put on the tunes. It's been a long day and I'm ready to drop," she explained.

"Then by all means, let us talk," he agreed, having heard GY's preferences in music, and not being interested in enduring that cacophony again.

"So, gathering from the fact that you've only been at the school for a few weeks, and that you've got that accent, you're not from around here, are you?"

"No," he agreed, then remembering her earlier comment, hastily added, "we arrived a few months ago."

"We?"

"My…" He quickly searched for a word to describe Beverly – and found himself at a loss. Lover? No, that was too much information to reveal to this stranger. Friend? True enough – but Beverly was so much more. "…companion and I," he hastily informed her.

"So what brought you to scenic Batavia?" she asked.

"Actually, an accident. Pat and Gy put us up while we were recovering, and we're still here," he added.

"Man, most people can't get out of here fast enough," she chuckled. "There was a time when Batavia was _the_ place for folks with money, but that was years ago. Oh, yeah, there are some really nice houses out by 59 or Randall - but not in the heart of town. Not anymore. I would have left two years ago, but I lost my job. I was on unemployment for a long time, then I lucked out and ran into the owner of the restaurant. We got to talking and he hired me."

"That sounds fortuitous," Picard opined.

"Fortuitous? Slim, I have a freaking master's degree in economics - and I'm pushing beers in a bar! Nothing against the place: the hours aren't great but the money's enough to pay my bills - and I'm damned glad I've got the job, but get real. As soon as something opens up, I'm out of here. It's like your friend said: when life hands you lemons, make life take them back."

Picard smiled. "I gather you don't hold with the concepts of fate and destiny," he said.

She chuckled bitterly. "Destiny? Fuck destiny. The universe had a destiny once, and it still does, but what it was was the inevitable heat-death of everything eventually collapsing back into a black hole. Or so the scientists from Fermi Lab tell me.

"But you know what? Something happened," she said. "Somewhere down the line, somehow, something started thinking. Not just life, _sentient_ life. That came along and it made a choice, and that choice was the first real step in the universe's lifetime away from heat-death. Since then humans have come along and we've started making thoughts and choices too. Slim, every time you make a choice you're taking a step on your own path, and nothing and nobody can tell _you_ where that path is going to go. Each and every time you choose something, you're crushing destiny's fragile form under your heel and the pieces left behind make another form, another shape. Another destiny.

"Oh, destiny is there, all right - but as long as you're alive, as long as someone thinks, as long as there are choices being made, destiny is being changed and rewritten. That's what we live for; that's the function of our existence. Sentient life doesn't exist just to propagate itself, it exists to change the future, to walk towards the one it wants. So fuck the destiny you had, and embrace the one you want. Fate's a bitch, but when you can make your own decisions, fate is _your_ bitch."

Picard stared at her for a moment then murmured, "I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul."

"_Invictus_," she countered. "William Ernest Henley," she added – then gave him a slightly embarrassed smile. "Minor in English poetry," she explained. "And a minor in philosophy - hence the destiny diatribe. Sorry about that. It's all crap of course: there's always events outside your life that you can't control... but you got to accept responsibility for your own life, Slim – whether it's the decision to drop the English lit degree in favor of the Economics degree, or to take a crap job at a bar rather than standing in line at the unemployment bureau for another two years. My life, my decisions – my future. Same for you. Same for everyone. Turn here?"

Picard looked at the woman for another moment – then realized what she was saying. "Next corner, and turn left. Fifth house on the right."

Five minutes later, Pat had helped Picard move Gy to his room and was walking the man to the front door. "Please don't be too angry with him, Pat," Picard began.

"I'm not angry, John. Gy's a big boy and makes his own choices - good and bad. He's going to pay for it tomorrow, so that's probably punishment enough. But you shouldn't pay for it as well," she added. "Let me grab my coat and I can drive you to the school."

Picard glanced around the small living room and realized that they were alone. "Sandra?" he asked Pat.

"I sent her home. Poor thing looked exhausted – and I can take you home."

Picard hesitated. He was more than capable of walking the few miles from Pat's house to the school - but by the time he got there, it would be close to two in the morning. A life spent as a Starfleet officer had made him more than familiar with the necessity of working long hours with little sleep - but it was a practice he hadn't followed in a long time.

More importantly, he realized, he wanted to get home. He wanted to see Beverly. Even if she were long asleep, even if he couldn't make love to her, he needed nothing more than to sleep beside her.

But Gy's words and Sandra's had struck at him deeply. The long walk might give him a chance to clear his own mind and to evaluate what they – and Beverly – had been saying.

"Thank you – but I think I'll walk," he said at last. "Sleep well," he added, then opened the door and stepped into the cool night air.

He pulled on the handle of the front door of the school – but the doors stayed stubbornly closed. Locked, he realized with a sigh. Was this a sign that Beverly was angry with him for his late night adventure, or simply her good judgment at protecting herself and their home?

Their home.

Those words had been filling his thoughts as he had taken the long walk back to the apartment.

For so long he had not had a real home; as comfortable as he had been on the Enterprise, as familiar as he was with the quarters than had been his for so many years, he had never truly considered himself 'at home' in that space; even on the Stargazer, his ship for so many years, he had never quite accepted his dwelling more than a temporary abode.

But in only a few months, he had somehow accepted that this place was now... home.

Perhaps, he acknowledged, it was because he realized that there was nowhere else he could go - the stars were off limits to a man of his age on this world - or perhaps the reason was simpler: Beverly. Wherever she was was home.

Even if she might be quite justifiably angry with him, he added.

He unlocked the doors, reminding himself as they groaned open that he needed to oil the hinges in the morning – no, the afternoon, he amended; he had classes to teach in the morning, and he suspected that Gy was not going to be in any shape to teach anything tomorrow... no, today, he corrected himself again - then sighed as he realized how close that class time now was. Still, a few hours sleep was better than none.

Locking the door behind him, he moved up the stairs quietly, letting himself into the school, then walked up to the apartment as quietly as possibly, hoping not to wake Beverly.

He gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the space, staring at where the bed was until he could make out the unmoving form of his lover.

A faint sensation of disappointment washed over him: after the long walk, he wanted to talk with her, to voice his thoughts on the evening and to listen to her ideas and opinions - but he was not about to wake her just to indulge himself in a conversation that could easily wait for the morning.

Slipping off his coat, he hung it over the coat hook at the top of the stairs, then moved to the closet, undressing quickly before slipping into a pair of sweat pants. Moving noiselessly to the bed, he slid under the covers, trying to disturb the bed's other occupant as little as possible.

For a moment, Beverly lay unmoving beside him, then somehow sensing the change, turned, nestling against him, her hand settling on his chest.

Picard smiled at the familiarity, turning slightly so he could wrap an arm over her as well.

The slight movement was enough to stir her from the depths of her sleep. "It's late," she murmured.

"I'm sorry," he apologized.

"'Sokay," she answered, then shifted again, moving so she could lay her head on his chest, her fingers caressing him sleepily. "You're home now."

With a surge of joy he couldn't remember having felt before, he kissed the top of her head. "I love you," he whispered.

"Mmmm," she replied in a sleep-bound sound of acknowledgement.

Smiling, he closed his eyes, relaxing against the pillows.

They lay in silent stillness in the dark room for a few minutes, then Beverly drew a deep breath. "You smell good," she murmured.

He gave a short laugh, suspecting he smelled - but not 'good'. "The heady aroma of working out for three hours, not taking a shower, then sitting in a bar for three more hours, followed by a long walk in a coat that was far too warm for the weather," he explained.

"Masculine," she informed him, her fingers playing in the short curls on his chest. "Arousing," she continued. "I missed you," she added, kissing his chest.

His brows rose at the implication. "I missed you, too," he agreed. "I wanted to talk with you."

Her hand moved lower, fingering the curls at his waist, her lips following them in torpid succession, then sliding beneath the waistband of his sweat pants. Finding its goal, her hand wrapped around him, slowly caressing him.

"I wasn't thinking of talking," she informed him.

He groaned softly at her touch. "Beverly," he managed softly.

She slowly worked her way back up his chest, kissing him as she moved, her hand grasping his growing firmness, then looked at him, their eyes meeting in the near blackness of the unlit room.

"I love you," she said, then lowered her face to his, kissing him deeply.

In his last moments of coherent thought before he surrendered himself to her completely, a single word filled his mind, leaving him with a sense of contentment he could not remember having ever known before.

_Home._


	26. Chapter 26

April 7

Gy studied at his student in relieved surprise. Driving a car was no great task, he knew, but that was with an automatic transmission. Driving a manual usually meant days of frustration for the student as she learned to coordinate hands and feet, along with headaches and stiff necks for both the driver and her teacher as they both suffered through the many mis-steps of trying to master a smooth transition from neutral to first gear.

Having tried to teach Corrie the art the summer before, he had steeled himself for another similar bout of head snapping jerks back and forth - but Beverly mastered the technique with appeared to be a minimum of effort - and definitely with a minimum of stalls and neck-wrenching starts.

"You sure you haven't done this before?' he asked in genuine amazement - and relief.

"Drive? Of course I have," Beverly replied. "But it was an automatic," she added.

If that's what could call a vehicle that was built three hundred years from now and didn't have anything even vaguely resembling gears inside this car, she added silently. Still, the coordination between the eye, hand and foot wasn't any more difficult than many a dance step she had practiced in her life - and watching the tachometer and speedometer in order to gauge when to change gears was simplicity itself when compared to piloting a shuttlecraft.

But Gy didn't need to know that, she added.

"Okay, we're going to turn up here, so slow down... can you hear the change in the engine? When it drops like that, it's telling time to shift down," he informed her.

Beverly laughed softly. "John said he could always tell our speed by the sound of the ship's engines," she said.

"Ah, so you guys were Navy, eh?" Gy replied, always curious for more information about his friends' mysterious pasts.

"I didn't say that," she countered good-humoredly. "But we did spend the majority of our time on ships," she conceded.

"I suppose you saw your share of ground fighting too," he sighed.

"We did. Too much," she agreed soberly.

"That explains it, kind of," Gy said. "Okay, you can speed up a bit here; we're going to merge into the left lane and the traffic is moving a little faster. Speed limit here is 50, so move to the left, and let the slowpokes keep to the right lane. Put on your signal, then downshift, give it a little gas and you should be able to get into traffic without a problem. Nice," he added a moment later. "You're a natural, Beverly."

"Thank you," she said, then eased up on the gas, upshifted to fourth gear, and felt the engine settle into a contented purr.

No wonder Jean-Luc loved driving ground vehicles, she realized; they were a marvelous combination of the mechanical and the sensual, powerful engines that yielded to the gentlest of touches, signaling their needs and desires in subtle but unmistakable ways. She wouldn't quite call it erotic - but it was definitely sensual, and she could see where the attraction was; why so many men of this time - our time, she corrected herself gently - were attached to their vehicles.

A shame they didn't apply that same level of attention to their partners, she mused, or they would both be happier and more contented.

Then again, she sighed, the needs of a vehicle were relatively basic and obvious - and given money and time, those needs could usually be fulfilled. Helping people find that same level of fulfillment took more attention and more time than most people could afford to give - or, she added with a sigh, were interested in giving.

Or perhaps, she added, we're the exception. We've waited so long for one another that we're both willing - and able - to put forth the energy and the time to make a relationship work.

"You okay?" Gy interrupted her thoughts.

She glanced at him, slightly startled, then quickly turned her eyes back to the road, cautioning herself to pay attention. It was one thing to daydream at the helm of a shuttlecraft, where traffic was usually not a concern - but here, with hundreds of cars moving along within a few feet of her, she had to pay closer attention to her work.

"Sorry," she said.

"I wasn't criticizing, Beverly. You're doing a great job. You just sounded a little tired. Tell you what - let's turn here on Pine, and we can do some back streets and make our way back to the school. I told John I'd be back before the second class started - and this'll let you practice some frequent shifts as we make turns."

He pointed out a turn, watched in silence as she negotiated it skillfully, smiling to himself. "Okay: make a right here, and you can practice moving through the gears."

A half hour later, Beverly eased the car into the parking space on the street in front of the school, then moved the gear shift into 'park', turned the ignition switch off and turned to look at Gy.

"Well?" she asked.

He smiled back. "You got it made in the shade, Beverly. Just make sure you're up to speed on the rules of the road, and I'm sure you'll pass. Have you thought about when you want to go take the test?"

Beverly nodded. "John and I thought we'd go next week, after he gets a chance to practice a bit more," she added.

Gy nodded. "I can't say I blame him: they really tend to give older drivers a hard time about getting and keeping their licenses." He gave a long sigh. "Man, I can't believe he's that old… hell, I can't believe you're in your fifties – but that John's in his seventies?" he muttered incredulously. "Shit."

Beverly contained the frown that threatened. They had one a critical mistake in drafting their birth certificates – one that they hadn't truly considered when they were creating their false histories.

In this time period, people seemed to judge the capabilities of others by their age as well as by how well they actually did things – and knowing this, Jean-Luc and Beverly had carefully shaved ten years from their ages.

Changing their ages had proven doubly convenient: having already declared himself to being a native of France, they were committed to abiding by that truth – not that Jean-Luc would have wanted it any other way, Beverly reminded herself – but by putting his birthdate during the early years of the second world war, it made any attempt to disprove the validity of his birth certificate impossible. That LaBarre existed was unquestionable – but that he had – or had not – been born in that small village could never be confirmed – or denied.

Beverly's birth certificate was a little harder to create, given their nearly twenty-year age difference and the presumption that she was a native of the United States – but after some careful research, they had found a small town in Ohio that had disappeared decades before, a victim of hard economic times. Little was left of the place now – including any public records that might have once existed.

Despite the hours of work they had put into researching the documents that would confirm their supposed birth places and dates, the clerk at the Department of Motor Vehicles had given the papers more than a passing glance; she had spent far more time looking at the other documents - real documents, like the electric bill and the phone bill that Gy had given them – then she had at those carefully crafted pieces of paper.

Apparently their identity and age were less important, Beverly realized, than was their correct address.

What had surprised them both, however, was Gy's reaction when they had presented him with their temporary license permits; the young man had been shocked by the ages that were shown. In retrospect, Beverly thought, we could have taken another decade off without raising an eyebrow.

And we probably should have, she added, seeing Gy's unbelieving look as he glanced at her driving permit before handing it back to her.

"Good genes and clean living," she replied quietly.

He chuckled. "I'll take a little dirty living, myself: what's the point of getting old if you're not having fun getting there?"

Beverly smiled back.

"But speaking of good genes…" Gy digressed.

She gave him a curious look.

Gy met her gaze, hesitated – then spoke. "Beverly, how's Ma doing? I can see she's losing weight – but she doesn't look good. I hear her wheezing when she's trying to get up the stairs… you know she's planning to renovate the house, to put an addition on the back. She says it's a good investment for when she sells in a few years – but I think it's because she's just having too hard of a time climbing up and down the stairs."

Beverly studied the worried man's face, then placed a reassuring hand on his arm. "Gy, I'm not allowed to practice medicine here - and I don't want you to think that I am. Have you talked to Ralph?"

"Yeah. He won't say anything. He says I should talk to Ma – but she won't say anything either. Says she's fine," he growled worriedly.

She nodded understandingly; in her way, Pat was as reluctant and uncooperative patient as Jean-Luc could be – but Jean-Luc had always capitulated when he realized that the good of his ship and crew depended on his recovering; Pat, on the other hand, was determined to protect her son – a tact that clearly was not working.

"I'll talk with her," she promised. "I can't make any promises – but I'll talk with her."

Gy nodded – then managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Beverly. I appreciate it," he added – then glanced at the car's clock, then back at her. "I ought to get up there; I told John I'd handle the last two classes tonight so he can work on his forms."

She handed the keys to Gy, waited for a momentary break in the traffic, then eased her way out of the front seat and made her way around the car. Opening the back door, Gy extricated his computer bag, locked the car, then gestured for her to enter the school ahead of him.

As she made her way to the top of the stairs, Beverly gave a puzzled look at the class instructor – then recognized Fred Grancher, resplendent in his white do-bahk and new orange belt, leading the class of young teens.

Sensing the intruder, he looked at the door way, then blushed furiously as he realized who was standing there and hastily turned his attention back to the class. With a bemused, but kindly, smile, Beverly turned her attention away from the young man and looked around the large room, searching out her lover.

Jean-Luc was standing near the rear door, chatting quietly with a familiar-looking woman. One of the mothers? Beverly asked herself – then shook off the idea; it was a vaguely familiar face – but not someone from the school, and she was far too young to be the mother of one of these older students.

"Ellie!" Gy called out from behind Beverly, hurrying to where Picard and the woman were standing.

"Actually, it's Sandra," the woman reminded him softly as she turned to face him.

It was Gy's turn to blush. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I was so drunk. I apologize…"

"Not a problem," she replied. "It's what I do – sell people drinks then scrape them off the floor when I do my job too well – though usually they're not doing Cave Johnson after four beers," she added.

He blazed red this time. "Sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay. I like Portal – though I'm a little bit more into Minecraft," she added.

Gy's eyes widened. "Tell me you like Battlestar Galactica, and I'll marry you."

Sandra gave a little shrug. "Sorry. A little too angsty for my taste," she admitted to Gy's obvious sorrow. "If I'm going to do angst, I prefer to take it in an animated form," she explained. "Give me Neon Genesis Evangelion anyday."

His eyes widened again. "2.2?"

"Of course. Did you know they're going to run it at the Music Box in May – just before Acen?" she asked.

"Acen? You go to Acen?" Gy asked in awe.

Sandra stood a little straighter at his answer, smiling in delight. "Go? Hell, I cosplay! I was Motoko Kusanagi last year."

"First season or second?"

"Two gig," she admitted. "I don't have the body for those jeans she wore in the first season."

Gy chuckled. "Like that stops anybody else. I mean Sailor Bubba, after all."

"Well, yeah, but…" Her voice trailed off and she studied him carefully. "Do you rave on Friday night or Anime Hell?"

"Anmie Hell," he assured her. "Gotta have my Fish Fight."

"Ah-oh! Ah-oh! Ah-oh ah-oh ah-oh," she sang in reply as Gy's grin widened.

"My spoon is too big," he answered.

"I am a consumer whore!"

"And how!"

They both burst into laughter, leaving Picard and Beverly to start at them in uncomprehending confusion. Beverly stepped away, moving to Picard's side.

"Did you understand a word of that?" she asked quickly.

"The words, yes. The meaning, no," he replied. "There are times that I think learning to understand the Tamarians was easier than understanding my own ancestors. Then again, if you and I were to speak as we once did, I suspect Gy would be equally lost."

"That's a fair point," she conceded, "but clearly Gy understands her – 'her' being…?" she prompted.

"My apologies, Beverly; I should have introduced you," he replied. "Her name is Sandra; she's the waitress from O'Brien's. She's the one who took Gy home the other night."

Ah, Beverly thought to herself; that's where I've seen here before, walking past the coffeeshop on her way to the restaurant. "Gy and you," she reminded him. "Should I ask what she's doing here?" Beverly pressed.

Picard smiled at the slight hint of jealousy in his lover's voice. He had never considered himself to be a man of false modesty, but it had been many years since he had considered himself as being of interest to any woman. It was still more than a little astounded that Beverly cared for him; that any other woman would was beyond the bounds of his comprehension.

Beverly, however, seemed to have a different idea about that.

Reassuringly, he took her hand in his. "She took Gy home - and left me to walk," he reminded her. "And as to why she's here, it's to see Gy – not me. Gy left her a tip when we were at the bar – everything he had in his wallet. It was over four hundred dollars. Sandra came by to return it."

"I doubt that was the only reason," she replied, inclining her head toward the chairs where Gy and Sandra were sitting.

He gave her a quizzical look – then followed Beverly's glance toward the two, who were talking animatedly – then watched as Gy stood up and hurried back to where Jean-Luc and Beverly stood.

"John, I hate to impose, but could you possibly take tonight's classes? I know I said I'd cover the classes so you could practice, but it's Sandra's night off, and I was hoping…"

Beverly interrupted. "Go ahead. Fred and I can help John with the classes tonight," she assured him – then glanced at Picard. "If that's all right with you?" she added.

"Far be it from me to argue with a lady," he demurred. "And you do need to work on your forms," he added in mock seriousness.

She raised a brow in surprise, silently promising to make him pay for that remark after everyone left that evening – then bowed politely. "Then may I be excused to change into my uniform… sir?" she added pointedly.

Picard grinned back, then moved to the front of the classroom, drawing Fred aside to explain the change in the day's class plans.

Judging from the young man's glance at the windows to the apartment above the school and his quickly reddening cheeks, Picard reminded himself that Beverly wasn't the only one who needed to contend with issues of jealousy; it was clear – at least to him – that Fred was quite smitten with Beverly.

We'll have to do something about that soon, he thought to himself – but without damaging Fred's newly developing sense of self-confidence.

He smiled to himself, having faced the same challenge often enough in his days as a starship captain; perhaps, he mused, my role in this time is not quite as it was on the Enterprise.

Though with far more benefits, he added as Beverly reentered the classroom a few minutes later, her uniform simultaneously obscuring her figure and highlighting it at the same time. He resisted the temptation to kiss her hand, gesturing instead for her to take her place on the practice floor.

"And let's line up for Songahm one: white belt form," he announced to the class at large. "Feet shoulder-width apart, right hand in high block, left hand in reaction force position and… step forward into left front stance, left high block – make sure your left forearm moves to block your face…"

It was just after ten when Gy and Sandra exited the restaurant; although he helped her on with her coat, he made no attempt to hold her hand as the two walked back toward the school.

Not that he didn't want to, he thought to himself; the evening with Sandra had been delightful, and she had been both an intelligent and interesting person – not to mention an avid gamer and fan of anime – but he had explained that he was still in a relationship with Corrie, and while it was less than satisfying, he did not want Sandra to think he was the type of man to string along one girlfriend while dating a second.

To his relief, she hadn't been offended by his explanation; if anything, Sandra had relaxed at his announcement, and the balance of the evening had proceeded in an atmosphere of shared interests and relaxed camaraderie.

Still, they walked at a slow pace back down the street, both seemingly reluctant to let the evening end too soon.

But end it must, Gy reminded himself; he had paperwork to complete for two quotations that were promised for the next day – and the data he needed was on the computer he had left in the school.

Stopping in front of the school door, he turned to Sandra. "I've got to run up and grab my laptop; it'll only take a second – and then I'll walk you to your car," he said.

"I can come up with you," she offered.

Gy glanced up at the windows on the top floor – but seeing no light emanating from them, he shook his head. "Beverly and John have probably gone to bed already," he said.

"Already?" she said skeptically. "It's just ten – and you said your classes run until nine. Surely they're still awake."

"I doubt it. They both work all day, and, well… They're kind of old," he admitted.

"Old?"

"Well, John's like seventy-something – and Beverly's in her fifties," he explained.

Sandra chuckled. "No kidding? I never would have guessed it. But fifty isn't old, Gy. And John doesn't act like he's seventy," she pointed out.

"Yeah, but…"

She gave him a slight frown. "Surely you don't judge people by their ages, do you Gy?" she asked.

He looked at her, startled by the accusation – then glanced back at the upstairs window.

Maybe she's right, he thought; I never even thought about how old John was –until I saw his age on that permit. If the number didn't matter before, why should it matter now?

"Whatever," he sighed. "In any case, there's no sign that they're up, and age aside, Beverly does have to be at the shop early. I don't want to wake them – and I know my way around the school, even in the dark. It'll only take a few seconds," he assured her.

Sandra nodded, then watched as Gy pulled the door keys from his pocket, carefully unlocked the door, and entered the school.

Silently making his way up the stairs, he unlocked the upper set of doors, eased his way in, then stood still, carefully listening for any sounds of the school's residents.

A faint noise drifted down from the apartment; after a moment, Gy realized that the shower was running. Risking a glance upstairs, he noted that the lights were still off; whoever was in the shower, the other was probably asleep, he decided, relieved. Still, he didn't want to be there when whoever was in the shower got out; even though the school was his, and he had every right to be here, it would be awkward to be found creeping around down here.

Quickly walking across the classroom to the parent conference area, he grabbed the computer bag then started back to the entrance, freezing as he heard the sound of the shower stopping.

Damn it! Gy thought to himself, then glanced at the school's door, wondering if he had time to race across the floor before the bathroom door opened, or whether he should just wait it out until whoever it was went to bed.

And then to sleep.

And hope that Sandra doesn't begin to wonder what happened to me and comes up? he added a moment later. No, I gotta go for it, he decided.

A sudden bang and a flash of light from the upstairs tore his thoughts away from his escape; glancing up in surprise, he realized that the sound had been nothing more than that of the bathroom door slamming against the wall and a stream of light pouring from the small room – quickly followed by a rush of laughter and steam and a blur of movement as the bodies of John and Beverly flashed by the window – followed by the sound of the bed creaking under the sudden impact of their combined weight.

Another round of laughter followed – then a prolonged and ominous silence, which was then replaced by Beverly's voice.

"Do you like that, my captain?"

There was a strained noise that was something between a groan and a cry of pleasure, then Beverly's voice murmuring, "And that?"

"Mon Dieu! Beverly..."

The low chuckle of a woman followed – then the soft creaks of the bed moving in an all-too familiar rhythm.

Horrified, Gy quickly made his way toward the door, silently exiting, locking the door carefully behind him, then rapidly making his way down the stairs.

He opened and closed the front doors with exaggerated care, locking them again – then stared at his companion.

"What's wrong?" Sandra asked when she saw the expression on his face.

"Nothing," he said hastily. "Nothing! I just… I just didn't want to disturb them."

She gave a faint sound of surprise. "So you were right; they were already in bed, eh?"

"Uh… yeah. So where are you parked?"

Sandra nodded in understanding, then nodded toward the end of the sidewalk. "In the lot by O'Brien's. You don't have to walk me, you know," she added.

"I'd like to – if you don't mind," Gy replied.

She smiled. "I'd like that."

"Me, too," he agreed – then glanced at the upstairs windows one last time, and gave an involuntary shudder.

Things you can't unsee, things you can't unhear, he thought to himself – then added, but maybe they're not _that_ old after all.


	27. Chapter 27

April 19 – part 1

With a gallant flourish, Jean-Luc opened the door to the car that was parked in front of the school, allowing Beverly to seat herself on the passenger's side, smiling appreciatively at her long legs as she pulled them into the car.

He had to admit that this – the sight of Beverly wearing blue jeans – had been an unexpected and unanticipated benefit of living in this time and culture. The current fashion emphasized long, lean legs and shapely derrieres – and Beverly, having both of them, had taken to wearing the pants as often as decorum permitted – which in this culture, Picard knew, was almost everywhere and in almost every situation – though, he admitted, perhaps not always appropriately.

Today's adventure however, befitted the casual attire perfectly; a perfect spring day to be spent walking the trails of the local arboretum.

Well, perhaps not a perfect day, he conceded: the weather was quite sunny but rather cool, and the recent rains had left the ground more muddy than damp – but perfect for jeans and hiking boots, he amended.

And any day spent with Beverly was as close to perfection as he could imagine.

He confirmed that Beverly was safely inside the car before closing the door for her, then quickly walked to the far side, opened the door and eased himself into the seat.

Checking the rear view mirror and adjusting it slightly, he quickly did the same with the side mirrors, checked the control panel ensuring they had adequate fuel, started the car – then turned to look at his companion as she chuckled.

He raised a brow in question.

"Always a shuttle pilot at heart, aren't you?" she teased.

He smiled back, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. "A good pilot never assumes anything, Beverly. Indeed, if I had been slightly more alert, we might not be here now," he reminded her.

Her smile faded slightly as he released her hand, looked over his shoulder, then eased the car into the flow of traffic.

"I'll trust you to be our navigator," he said, handing Beverly the directions Gy had given them.

She nodded, then murmured, "We stay on Wilson until we reach Kirk Road," she began then chuckled. "Probably not named for the earlier captain of the Enterprise," she surmised.

"Probably not," he agreed, smiling, but keeping his eyes on the light traffic ahead of him. "Perhaps if we were in Iowa, it might be named for one of his antecedents – but not here. It's a fairly common name, I gather – both as a given name and as a surname."

She smiled back. "Turn right on Kirk, then down to Butterfield, and take that into the town of Lisle. Gy says it should take around thirty minutes to get there."

Picard nodded, but this time it was his turn to frown.

"Jean-Luc?"

He glanced at her then turned his attention back to the road. "The bridge on Butterfield was where Gy found us, Beverly. It's where we almost died. Where I almost lost you," he added, reaching for her hand.

She let his fingers interlace with hers, then drew it to her lips, kissing it softly. "Almost – but didn't," she said – but there was a hesitation in her voice. Before he could ask, she looked at him. "Jean-Luc… Do you regret what happened? Not the accident of course – and I know it was an accident – but our ending up here?"

He drew in a long breath, then freed his hand to return to the steering wheel as they approached the red light at the intersection. Touching the turn signal he waited until he heard the soft click of the lamp flashing on and off before looking at her.

"Regret it? Yes, absolutely. I regret stranding you centuries away from the people and time we were both born to live in. I regret that I can't go back to being a starship captain, or traveling in space, or meeting people of different cultures and societies and species. I regret that I've managed to prevent you from going back to your medical practice – something you loved and did so well. I regret everything that happened to us," he said.

Beverly stiffened at his words.

"Except… us," he continued. "Beverly… Oh, Beverly," he went on after a moment's hesitation. "What can I say? I wake up in the middle of the night, missing everything that once made up my world, aching and grieving for what I lost – and then I feel you lying beside me, hear the soft whisper of your breath as you sleep beside me, the warmth of your body pressing against mine – and I know that for everything we both have lost, I have gained something that I would never have known in our time.

"I needed to be stripped of everything that I was, to have every outward trapping of my role, my position taken away – in order to realize what was truly important. And that is you, Beverly.

"I love you," he added softly.

She tightened her grip on his hand, raised it to her lips, murmuring, "I love you, too. The light's green," she added.

Startled, he glanced ahead, then moved into the turning lane and onto the road.

"Pat says it's a little early in the year for the trees. Some will be budding – but the flowers should be blooming. Tulips, daffodils, jonquils… it should be quite lovely," she informed him.

"To be honest, Beverly, I really don't care. I'm simply looking forward to having a day away from the school - and being with you," he added, glancing at he quickly before turning his attention back to the road.

Beverly smiled back. "I have to admit I was surprised when Gy offered you the day – and even more surprised that you accepted. There was a time, Jean-Luc, when you had to be blackmailed into leaving the ship for a holiday."

He nodded, signaled a turn, slid into the adjacent lane then glanced at her. "A time, yes. Three hundred years from now. When all I had, all I was, was my work. But that was then – this is now – and now, there is so much more to my life." He reached for her hand again, embracing it warmly. "Like playing hockey and taking a day away from the school."

Beverly gave him a perplexed look. "Hockey?"

He grinned. " 'Playing hockey'. A local idiom, meaning to take an illegitimate holiday from school or work."

Beverly laughed softly. "The phrase is 'playing hooky', Jean-Luc – and since this was Gy's idea, it's not even that. But I'm happy you're doing it, no matter what it's called."

"And I'm glad Pat agreed that you could take the day as well," he concurred.

"I'd thank Gy for that as well, but I saw you talking with Pat," she countered. "How did you manage to talk her into it?"

He gave her a mischievous smile. "I've negotiated peace treaties between planets that have been at war for centuries – and you don't think I could talk Pat into giving you one day off?" he asked.

Beverly inclined her head. "I bow to your superior bargaining skills, Jean-Luc – though I hope I don't learn that you've offered one of my weekend days in exchange."

He chuckled. "Don't worry," he assured her. "Do we turn here?"

Beverly glanced at the map, then shook her head. "The next intersection."

They drove in relative silence for a few minutes, Beverly guiding them until they reached the main road, then sat back, enjoying the passing scenery.

"I keep finding myself surprised, Jean-Luc," she said after a time.

"By…?"

"Everything. What I know of Earth of this time is from school – but living here is nothing like the books suggested. Yes, there's terrible poverty – but overwhelming generosity and kindness as well. There's environmental problems - but there's also a concerted effort to reduce pollution, plant trees, reduce waste… "

He nodded. "The documentation of history of this time is, at best, dubious. Perhaps it was always so," he added. "What gets written is always colored by the perspective of the writer – and occasionally by imagination as well. A similar thought had occurred to me; knowing how little the scholars of our time know about this period, I had thought that I might start trying to create a more comprehensive and accurate history of this time – something that might survive the war and make it to our time."

"Won't that change the timeline?" she asked.

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. Just because I want it to survive doesn't make it so," he pointed out.

"Yes – but if it does?" he asked.

He looked at her – the turned away again. "There's a sign for the arboretum," he said.

A few minutes later, Jean-Luc had parked the car, exited his side, then made his way around the car and opened Beverly's door. "You know, I could get to like this," she said as she extended her hand to him.

"I already do," he answered as she rose from the car, kissing her softly, then wrapped her hand around his arm. "Shall we?"

The faint scent of pine filled the air as they walked toward the park entrance. "Lovely," Beverly sighed, drawing in a deep breath. "It reminds me Caldos."

"You'll have to tell me more about your home there," he answered. "I only saw it for those few brief days at your grandmother's funeral – and the weather was hardly conducive to touring the region."

Beverly sighed – but, Jean-Luc was relieved to hear – contentedly.

The death of Beverly's grandmother had affected her far more deeply than she had let on, Jean-Luc knew; even without the emotional devastation that her encounter with Ronan had caused, the events of their last trip to Caldos had weighed heavily upon Beverly. Felisa Howard had been Beverly's last connection to her family, her heritage – but with her death that connection had been severed, leaving her adrift.

True to her nature, of course, she had kept her pain and her feelings concealed from those around her; he knew from Deanna's reports that she had turned the subsequent counseling sessions away from the topic of her personal loss to the sequelae from Ronan's assault – but for several months thereafter, she had found reasons to share more time with him. Breakfasts as always, but dinners as well, attending plays and concerts together, taking long walks together – in the arboretum, on the holodeck – or simply walking the corridors, idly chatting about nothing or significance or importance.

He had been her anchor, he knew, keep her from drifting away in her sorrow and loneliness – but like an anchor, he had not offered her more than she asked of him.

I was a such fool, he thought to himself.

Or not, he added a moment later; she had been vulnerable in those months that had followed Felisa's death. To have asked anything of her regarding their relationship might well have seemed manipulative – and in time, Beverly might have come to resent any decisions she might have made during that time.

No, he knew – it had been better to wait.

And then wait some more – and then wait again until they drifted back into their old habits.

"Which path?" she asked, interrupting his introspection.

"Oh… to the west – the second loop," he said. "That's where the spring flowers are planted," he added.

Following the signs, they soon found themselves traveling on a pine bark covered trail, every step they took sending up the heady scent of fresh earth, old leaves and the hint of new growth.

Beverly glanced down at the ground, spying tiny green shoots pushing their way through the ground; here and there, small mounds of dark green had erupted, tiny purple flowers dotting their surface.

"Violets," Picard said, noticing her gaze.

"Lovely," she said. "I suppose we're not allowed to pick them?"

He shook his head. "No. Technically speaking, we weren't supposed to pick the flowers on the Enterprise's arboretum, either."

"But who says 'no' to the ship's captain?" she asked.

"Not the ship's botanist," he agreed. "But here, we're simply tourists – and the rules do apply," he cautioned her.

"I think I can restrain myself," she replied. "But just in case, perhaps you should hold my hand."

She held out her hand, feeling a familiar thrill as he took it in his then led her further along the trail.

"You're right," he continued a few minutes later.

Beverly raised a brow.

"About history. About what isn't recorded. I was reading about this place – that it was started decades ago to maintain samples of native flora and fauna from the region so that everyone to enjoy it – and that it's hardly unique. But nothing of this aspect of this time period's history was recorded – or rather, made it to our time," he amended.

"But you would like to change that?" she asked.

"I know," he admitted. "It flies in the face of the Prime Directive – and everything that I've said before. But…"

"But this is our home, our life, our world now; we have the same obligations to this place as we did to our time," she concluded.

He stopped, turned and looked at her, moving closer to her until they were face to face – then moved to kiss her.

He pulled back, then whispered, "Yes. Our home. Our life. Until recently those were just words, Beverly – but now they mean something more to me. And you're right; we have the same obligations to this world as we had to our own. How much of that we can change, however, is going to be limited," he added. "I'm not a starship captain any more – and I don't have the resources of Starfleet and the Federation available to help us."

"We'll do what we can," she said.

"If nothing else, perhaps we can prevent this world from repeating all the same errors ours committed – if that's possible," he added.

"It is," Beverly said – rather confidently, Picard realized.

"Oh?"

"I asked you earlier if you had any regrets," she continued.

"Yes," he agreed – then realized she was waiting for him to ask her that same question. "And you? Do you have any regrets?"

"I miss practicing medicine," she said. "When I realized that we weren't going to be able to return home, I did some research – and quickly realized that I'm not going to be able to practice here. The replicator could certainly create the documents I need – but not the history. I wouldn't know who taught what when and where, and I wouldn't know who was in which class – and they wouldn't know me. Without it, they would suspect I was a fraud or worse. More than that, though, Jean-Luc – I wouldn't know the medicine. The physiology and biology haven't changed – but the drugs, the techniques, the protocols, the practices – I'd have to go back and learn it all again…"

"You could," he tried.

"I couldn't. Not now. Not here. Medical school is expensive – certainly beyond what we make – and the schools only accept a small percentage of the students that apply each year. Someone of my age isn't going to be accepted into one of these programs. But more than that, Jean-Luc, I wouldn't want to. I am sixty-one years old…"

"Only sixty-one," he countered, "and as vibrant and youthful as when I first met you."

She laughed brightly. "Hardly. But… what youth and energy I have, I don't want to spend in a classroom for the next six years, then in residency and a fellowship – if I can get one - for another four – and then find myself having to start in a practice all over again." She laughed again – though this time it was lower and softer. "You've spoiled me, Jean-Luc," she informed him.

"Oh?"

"You've reminded me that there is more to life than just my medicine. There's… us," she said.

This time, she moved closer to him – the kiss was longer and deeper.

His voice was hoarse with need when they finally broke apart. "I suppose there is no where around here that is away from prying eyes, is there?"

"I don't think so," Beverly answered. "The place seems relatively deserted – but there seem to be paths throughout the area. I doubt we'd hear any one approaching us. And it's bit cool for an outdoor frolic," she added.

"Indeed," he sighed regretfully. "Perhaps another time."

"Perhaps. Pat says the summers can get quite warm – and there are ample secluded spots along the river trail," she added.

He chuckled. "You, my dear, are quite the temptress."

"And you, my captain, are quite the adventurer. I never thought of you in those terms before."

"Hmpf," he answered. "I must confess I was quite the roué in my youth – but after the debacle with the Nausicaans, I re-evaluated my rather cavalier approach to life. I got serious."

"And a bit… prosaic?"

He inclined his head, possibly conceding the point. "I put my priorities elsewhere," he admitted.

"And now you're making up for lost time?"

He smiled. "Something like that," he agreed.

"I'm trying to do the same," she said. "I don't feel my time in medicine was lost – but I'm not willing to give it all up again to start over," she said. "But…"

Why did I know there was a 'but' coming in this conversation, Picard asked himself with a sigh. "But?" he echoed.

"But I don't want to completely disassociate myself from it either," she added.

He gave her a quizzical expression.

"I've been reading some of the medical journals at the hospital. I'm thinking about responding to some of the articles I've read," she said.

"Respond in what way?" he asked.

"Pointing out where there are deficiencies in the research, or where they're moving in the right direction – or where they are wasting their time," she said.

"Do you think they'll accept your input?" he asked.

"Not immediately, no," Beverly admitted. "But perhaps in time I'll be able to open some lines of communication to some of the researchers."

"And that's enough for you?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "But it's a start. And I have always enjoyed research," she added.

"You've always preferred caring for patients," Picard pointed out.

Beverly hesitated.

"Beverly?"

"Jean-Luc, I want to do a medical scan on Pat," she said.

Picard gave a heavy sigh. "Beverly, we've discussed that issue. We have limited resources…"

"I'm fully aware of that, Jean-Luc," she answered. "But it should only be one scan – and it is Pat…"

"I know," he agreed. "And I don't disagree that we owe Pat and Gy at least that much. But… if you can diagnose the problem, what can we do about it? You just said the researchers are going to be slow to accept your recommendations; won't doctors in this time be equally resistant to an outside opinion?"

"I'm sure they will – but Ralph isn't. I'm not quite sure how I'll be able to tell him in such a way that he can act on it , but once he knows, he can talk to her physician – and he or she will be more likely to accept it from a colleague than from a stranger."

Picard nodded, slowly digesting Beverly's words, then faced his lover. "Beverly, back on the Enterprise, you would have discussed this with me – then gone ahead and done what you felt was right regardless of what I had said."

"Not 'regardless'," she objected. "I always – always! – valued your opinions – and I always considered them in making my decisions."

"Even when those decisions resulted violating a direct order?"

"Your opinions, both as my captain and as my friend were always important – but as a doctor, I also had to answer to my oath and my beliefs – and when I violated orders, I was always aware that I would face serious consequences. I assure you, didn't devalue what you said – but I had to decide what was right for my patients as a physician first, and as an officer second."

"And now?"

"Now? Now you're not my captain – and I'm not a doctor. Now we're equals, working together, making decisions together. I'm going to try to convince you why I think that using a small portion of our limited resources to help diagnose Pat is the right thing – but if we agree in the end that it's not a good use of what we have, then that's what we agree," she said.

He studied her for a long moment, then raised her hand to his lips, kissing it softly. "Let's talk about it."

They walked hand in hand through the pine forest, talking – at first about Pat, then about their respective jobs – then slowly fell into silence, simply enjoying one another's company. As the path began to loop around to toward the beginning, Beverly pointed to a small clump of flowers, then ran toward it, pulling him after her. "Look, Jean-Luc – daffodils! I haven't seen daffodils since the Academy. Do you remember the patches that Boothby had planted by the old oak trees?"

Jean-Luc smiled. "They were one of my favorites on campus; when they finally blossomed, I knew the semester was almost over," he replied.

Beverly laughed. "I can't imagine you being anxious for the end of the year, Jean-Luc. I thought you were the consummate student."

He gave a long sigh. "Beverly, almost no one knows this, but I almost washed out of the Academy," he admitted.

"You're joking," she replied, suddenly sober.

"No. My first year was… difficult. Away from home – as bad as things were at home – alone, knowing almost no one – I was considered standoffish and arrogant..."

"Considered?" she teased.

"All right. I _was_ standoffish – but not arrogant. Quite the opposite. I was painfully shy and uncertain about myself and my abilities. To be honest, I was probably a year too young to have been admitted. Another year studying in France would have helped me fit in better – I would have been better prepared academically, and more emotionally developed. But I couldn't take another year at home.

"And so as soon as they accepted me, I left – ill prepared, immature, a bit naïve – and in general unready to be on my own. The studies taxed me to my limit – and occasionally beyond those limits. My grades slipped, I exercised some very poor judgment – and if it hadn't been for Boothby coming to my aid, I might have returned to France at the end of the first semester.

"I was given a second chance – and made the best of it – but it was a challenge until the last day of that semester. To this date, I can't see daffodils without feeling a sense of impending relief – as if the worst is over – and the best is yet to come."

"Perhaps it is," Beverly replied. "After all, we barely survived a shuttlecraft crash, a fall into a river, a blizzard…"

"Two blizzards," he reminded her.

"Near poverty," she continued, "no identities, being stranded three centuries from our home… and yet we're here, alive, surviving..."

He pulled her into his arms. "More than just surviving," he said. "For the first time in many years, Beverly, I'm… happy. So very happy. I love you," he said softly, then kissed her.

She accepted the kiss happily – then with growing passion. "You know, it is a rather quiet day today – there don't seem to be many visitors. And it's not that cold…"

"I have a better idea," he countered.

"Oh?"

"Indeed – but you're going to have to be just a little patient," he added mysteriously.

She gave him a curious look – but he said nothing, smiling instead, as they slowly completed their walk along the forest path.

After they reached the end, he escorted her to the car, settling her into it once more – then took his place behind the wheel and smiled at her. "Lunch?" he asked.

She frowned. "You're up to something, Jean-Luc."

He smiled mischievously. "Perhaps. But that doesn't answer my question: shall we have lunch?"

Beverly gave a frustrated sigh. "You know my weaknesses too well: curiosity – and hunger. Lunch it is – but as soon as we're done, I want to know what you're hiding from me."

"I promise I'll tell you... as soon as we're home," he agreed, smiling.

_Home._


	28. Chapter 28

April 19, 2011

What was it with men? Ariel Hoskins asked herself. One minute they could charm the pants off a girl – and in the next minute, they could prove themselves to be complete asses.

She'd see it all, of course. After working at the brew pub in downtown Naperville for the last five years, she'd seen every aspect of men; co-workers, brothers, friends, lovers, husbands – and yet at one time or another, they had all managed to put their foot into their mouths – or up their own butts – on at least one occasion.

Case in point: the otherwise charismatic older guy sitting with the redhead at table four. They'd seemed like a respectable pair – well spoken, polite, decent clothes – if a little muddy… all in all, they looked like they'd make an unremarkable pair of diners who would, with a little luck, leave her a generous tip.

And then he had to open his mouth and insert his foot.

"I think you've gained some weight," she repeated silently, hearing the man's words over and over in her head.

She'd heard guys drop that line before – usually when they were a little shy on money and didn't want their dates to order a big meal – but usually the guys were young. This guy was anything but young – okay, maybe he wasn't _that_ old, but he certainly had been around long enough to know better than to say that to his wife. Girlfriend, she amended after another glance. Daughter? she posited after another moment – then dismissed that idea, since the two had been holding hands.

They wouldn't be holding them any longer, she decided, although she had beat a hasty retreat after hearing his remark; she didn't want to be anywhere nearby when the fireworks started. With luck, the argument would be short and relatively quiet; he'd be left to sit there and wonder what the hell he had said to make her stalk off in a fit – and she might be able to remedy the situation with a few polite words and still rescue her tip.

More likely though would be a noisy fight, followed by his storming out after the woman – and she get stiffed on a tip altogether.

God, men were such jerks!

And it wasn't like the lady was fat, either! Ariel protested silently. Hell, neither of them were. After five years here, she had become pretty good a guessing who was a likely candidate for ordering dessert after lunch – and looking at the two, tall and lanky, but otherwise looking pretty healthy, she had decided that they met those criteria.

Well, no dessert for them today; she'd be lucky if they both stayed at the table for the entire meal.

Risking a glance at the two, she was surprised to see them both still in place – and doubly surprised to see them both smiling.

And holding hands again.

What the fuck?

Maybe I heard him wrong, she decided; maybe he had said something that sounded like "You've gained weight." Maybe he said, "You're looking great." Maybe it was, "I'm sorry I was late." Maybe…

Maybe what? she wondered.

Curiosity surging, she eased her way out from behind the cashier's station, picked up the water pitcher and made her way back to the table.

"… jeans were a little tighter," the man was saying as Ariel approached.

Ariel cringed – but to her surprise, the woman only laughed. "I thought you weren't supposed to notice things like that, Captain," she replied, her voice lyrical and soft.

"I didn't – when we were on duty…" he began to reply, but his voice trailed off when he noticed Ariel approaching.

Wordlessly, she added some water to their glasses, then smiled at them both. "Coffee? Dessert?"

Beverly glanced at Picard who smiled, but said nothing. "Both," she answered a moment later.

"Just tea for me," Picard added.

To Ariel's surprise, the woman frowned. "You need the calories, Jean-Luc," she admonished.

"I'm quite full," he countered.

She said nothing – but clearly the frown she gave him spoke volumes.

"We have a delicious bread pudding, served warm with a brandied sauce Anglaise," Ariel offered.

Picard gave Beverly an inquisitive look – then looked back at the waitress. "Bread pudding would be fine," he said.

"Two of them," Beverly countermanded.

"Beverly…" he began, but she only glanced up at Ariel, smiling. "Two of them, please," she repeated – then looked back at Picard. "You've got to keep up your strength," she explained soberly.

To Ariel's surprise – and relief – he broke out in a wide grin, then raised the woman's hand to his lips.

Now thoroughly confused, Ariel hurried away to place the order, bewildered by the behavior of the two – but relatively certain about the safety of her tip.

"You were saying…?" Beverly prompted as the waitress hurried away.

"I was saying that Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise, did not pay attention to the physical attributes of his fellow officers and subordinates, except as was necessary to assess their condition relating to fitness for duty. However, his fellow officers and subordinate did not typically wear jeans – and definitely did not wear them while looking out the bedroom window in the early hours of the morning, displaying their very shapely posteriors for the prurient appreciation of their captain," he pointed out.

Beverly gave him a look of feigned innocence. "I wasn't 'displaying' it; I was simply looking out the window," she insisted.

"Ah," he replied. "And you just happened to be shifting your weight back and forth displaying your... charms… in a most provocative manner."

"My shoes were uncomfortable," she countered.

"You were barefoot," he reminded her. "And topless," he added, then tightened his grasp on her hand. "You, my dear, are a temptress – and I am unable to resist that temptation."

"I don't know about that," Beverly answered. "We both managed to avoid temptation for more than twenty years."

"Indeed," he answered soberly – then kissed her hand again, slowly this time, as if savoring the moment after the long years they had both waited.

And then pulled away, loosening his hold so that their hands now simply rested against one another. "You were saying something about a theory on what has happened to us?"

"Yes," Beverly answered. "As you know, it's taken us both an inordinately long time to fully recover from what happened to us after we got here. Given that we were both in decent health when we left San Francisco, I know that it wasn't an underlying issue; it had to be something related either to the field that entrapped us – or to do with the time vortex.

"I remember some notes from Leonard McCoy about the effects of time travel on one of his last missions with James Kirk; they also traveled roughly three hundred years in time in one jump – and they all suffered ill effects, including loss of consciousness and disorientation.

"What I think is more significant is that their ship also suffered a near catastrophic power loss during that same mission."

Picard nodded. "I remember reading the mission notes."

"I can't say for sure without further research, but given the similarity of the circumstances and the results, I suspect that there may be some entropic field effect on all power sources - whether organic or inorganic - involved in time travel…"

Picard raised a hand. "We didn't suffer any of these effects when we followed the Borg back to Earth," he pointed out.

"True – but that temporal field was generated differently. You and I – and Kirk and his crew – all experienced time travel in close proximity to the sun. Our experiences with the Borg were through the use of chronometric particle vortex - though exactly how they generated it was never determined since the ship was destroyed. I suspect that the intense solar gravimetric field – or perhaps one of the Sun's radiation fields – produced as entropic effect; both we – as organic beings – and the shuttle were, in essence, drained," Beverly suggested.

Picard's brows raised – the lowered again. "Our experience wasn't that different than Kirk's: we traveled roughly the same distance in space and time. Why were we affected so much more intensely?"

Beverly shrugged. "That I don't know. Maybe the shuttle didn't protect us as thoroughly as Kirk's ship protected him. Maybe the proximity to the Sun was different. All I know is that we were affected fairly severely – and I think that we're only beginning to recover now because we're had to wait for new cells to replace those that were damaged in transit."

"I'm recovering more slowly, however, because I'm older?" he asked.

Beverly nodded reluctantly, hating to admit that truth. Age was just a number, she insisted to herself - then conceded that it was often far more. "It's possible, Jean-Luc," she said quietly. "Cellular replacement rates slow as we age. On the other hand, you were injured during the crash; without my medical equipment to repair and regenerate your injuries, you've had to heal as well as replace the damaged cells," she suggested. "It made have slowed you recuperation."

"You were injured as well," he reminded her.

"But not until after we crashed," she pointed out. "That may have made in difference in our recovery rates. Then again, our metabolic rates are different - as are our genders, age... Why we weren't both affected in the same way is something I just can't explain.

"Then again, it could be that I've simply been wearing you out these last few months," she added, her voice growing low and soft. "You can be quite the temptation as well, my dear captain. I must admit I like the idea of having you all to myself this evening."

Picard grinned. "While I appreciate the thought, I do need to point out that Gy will still be teaching this evening – and I don't think our bedroom escapades need to be overheard by my students."

She smiled. "_Your _students. That's something I never thought I'd hear you say, Jean-Luc."

"Nor I – but I must admit that I am enjoying teaching," he conceded. "And not just because I'm helping to shape the minds of the next generation; to my surprise…"

"You like working with children," Beverly offered.

He nodded. "I do."

"And you're good with them," she added.

"I wouldn't go that far," he countered quickly.

"I would. Admittedly, you can be a bit intimidating when they meet you for the first time – but then they see that smile of yours, and you're suddenly not quite as scary," she continued.

"My smile," he replied dryly.

"You have a wonderful smile, Jean-Luc," Beverly said. "The children see it and they know it comes from the depths of your heart - even though you're the last person to admit that you like having children around. To the parents, it's sincere, warm, genuine - just what they want to see in someone who is teaching their children. To men, it's strong and powerful yet controlled. And to women, it's inviting, intoxicating… erotic," she added.

"And to you, Beverly?"

She smiled at him coyly. "To me?"

"Do _you_ find it... erotic?"

Beverly nodded slowly, her eyes locked on his. "Intensely."

His eyes widened as he drew in a long breath – then he looked up, searching out their waitress, and gestured for her to come to the table. "Could we get those desserts to go?"

"After you," Jean-Luc said as he unlocked the door to the school, then motioned for Beverly to enter before him.

Smiling at him as she passed, Beverly hurried up the stairs, pulling her keys from her pocket as she did so, then unlocked the upstairs door to the school, entered - and stopped.

Something was wrong, she realized instantly; something was out of place, or moved or missing or… She frowned as she looked around the room, wondering if the school had been broken into – but there was nothing of real value in the school that could have been taken – and nothing seemed to be missing, she added.

"Was Gy up here today?" she asked worriedly as Jean-Luc entered the school.

"Why do you ask?"

She shook her head, then looked around again. "I don't know. Something just looks out of place."

Picard gave a non-committal shrug. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was. He said he was expecting a delivery at the house; maybe he brought it up while we were out. I'll check the stock room… later," he added with a smile – then reached for her hand.

"You're certainly amorous this afternoon," she replied as she let him lead her toward the door to their apartment.

"It's not often that I have the chance to take an afternoon off and spend it with you," he countered.

Beverly gave him a curious look, then pulled back. "Jean-Luc, you're up to something."

He looked at her with a looked of feigned innocence. "Whatever do you mean?" he replied, trying hard not to smile.

"I mean… You're not answering my questions, you're hurrying me out of the school and upstairs - you're up to something," she repeated.

"Maybe I'm just looking forward to taking you to bed," he answered as he reached for her hand again, then led her up the stairs.

She followed him, somewhat hesitantly; despite his protestations, Beverly knew Jean-Luc was planning something – aside from making love with her, she amended – but she had never been fond of surprises. After the disaster at Arvada, she had tried to avoid being in the limelight of social situations; there was too much about her own history that she didn't want to share to allow herself to be put in a position where she would be the focus of attention.

Nana had understood, of course; celebrations were kept small and private, happily shared between the two - but rarely with others. It had been different in medical school; there surprises were more the norm - and even expected on occasion. Beverly had circumvented the obvious ones by avoiding talking about her birthday and keeping any discussion that ventured in that direction carefully focused on the others around her.

Her reluctance had taken Jack aback the first time he had tried to surprise her with a party - but rather than being hurt when she had failed to show the expected response, he had taken the time to understand her reticence - and had not only respected it, but had requested that their mutual friends do so as well.

Jean-Luc, too, had honored that quirk of hers without question; a private man himself, he had understood her preference for solitude on some occasions - though he always remembered her birthday with a shared dinner, or to bring her a small gift when he had been away from the ship, he had never ventured beyond that - and always ran interference when others had suggested that a surprise celebration.

Before she could overanalyze his actions, however, he stopped her on the landing at the top of the stairs, took her in his arms, kissed her soundly - but not, to her surprise, overly passionately - then took her hand once more and led her toward their bed.

Their bed.

She stopped short, staring at the large piece of furniture that filled the small room – then turned to Jean-Luc.

"A bed?" she said, dumbfounded. "You bought a bed?"

"I bought us a bed - with a proper mattress. Do you like it?" he asked, more than a little nervously.

"It's…" Beverly fell silent, staring at the bed, then turned to Jean-Luc and hugged him. "It's wonderful, Jean-Luc! But… " She pulled back, looked at the bed, then moved closer to it, recognition slowly registering. "This is the bed I saw in one of Pat's catalogs," she said.

"Danish modern," he confirmed.

"And the duvet," she said, running her hand over the dark red satin, the let a finger trace the pattern of the gold embroidery and quilting.

"Pat said it's the one you were looking at when you went shopping a few weeks ago. I'm not sure what you're supposed to do with the eight pillows," he added skeptically, looking at the mounds of pillows that were mounded at the head of the bed.

"Apparently it's the fashion," Beverly said – then looked down at the bed, unable to face him.

Picard stared at her, confused, then heard a soft gasp.

She was crying.

"Beverly?" he asked tentatively – then placed his hand on her arm. "Beverly? What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's real, isn't it?" she whispered.

"The bed? Of course," he started to answer, only to be cut off in mid-sentence.

"No, not the bed. This. This time. This place." She looked at him, tears streaking her face. "We're not going home, are we?" she managed.

Picard stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head slowly. "No. No we're not," he said softly. Taking her hand, he led her to the edge of the bed and sat down beside her, then pulled her against him. "We're not going back, Beverly; if any of our attempts to get a message to Will had succeeded, he would have been back before this – if he could. Maybe he didn't get the messages – or maybe there was no way for him to get back here."

"I know," she replied. "I've always known that really - but somehow, I always kept thinking, hoping that maybe…"

He tightened his grip around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. "I understand, Beverly; I do understand. The first year I was on Kataan, I kept thinking that you and Will would show up and take me back – but it never happened. Slowly I began to accept that that was my new home – and always would be – but every now and then, something would startle me, remind me that a part of me was still waiting for someone to come after me – and it was as though I had been deserted once again.

"Maybe having gone through that has made it easier for me to accept this," he added soberly. "Maybe it made it too easy. Maybe I should have tried harder…" he said, only to feel Beverly shaking her head against his chest.

"No. There was nothing more we could do," she protested quietly. "I've known that since the day we buried the shuttlecraft – but coming up here today, seeing this bed – suddenly, it was all so suddenly _real_. We have a bed, we have jobs, we have commitments to this time period." She sniffled, wiped at her eyes, and managed a teary smile at her lover. "I'm sorry," she added quietly. "I've ruined your surprise."

Jean-Luc gave a soft laugh. "You haven't ruined it – and it wasn't supposed to be a surprise. I thought you would have figured it out: all of catalogs of furniture that Pat kept showing you, the shopping expeditions where you just 'happened' to wind up looking at linens and bed covers…"

"I never had a clue," she admitted. "I really thought Pat was looking at all those things for her own house. So Pat was in on this all?"

He smiled again. "From the very beginning - though she wasn't being entirely duplicitous; she is planning on renovating the house. But as for her involvement…" he demurred, then continued. "Do you remember that first morning?"

"Which first morning?" she asked innocently.

Picard leaned closer to her, kissing her softly. "You know which morning. The first morning after the first night we made love," he reminded her. "The morning when we thought Pat would never figure out that we were lovers."

"The morning when it took her all of five seconds after looking at the expression on your face," Beverly countered, kissing him back.

"That morning," he agreed, reaching for the top button on her jacket, opening it.

"What about that morning?" she asked as she loosened his coat in return.

"Do you remember when Pat and I were talking?" he asked as he pushed her coat off her shoulders.

"Um-hmmm," she purred against his mouth.

"She offered to cancel the women's self-defense class; she didn't anyone to interfere with our relationship," he explained as he unfastened his own shirt.

"But you didn't cancel them," Beverly reminded him, kicking off her boots, then pulling him up toward the head of the bed.

"I told her not to; I told her that I wanted that extra money – so I could buy us a proper bed," he added, joining her.

Beverly smiled. "So that explains why she was laughing."

"Let's just say it appealed to Pat's prurient nature," he agreed, as he began to nuzzle her neck – only to have her pull back suddenly. "Where's the couch?" she said, looking around the room.

"It's down in the school. While we were gone, Gy had his crew in here, moving out the couch, bringing in the new bed and setting it up," he explained as he returned his attention to her neck, then slowly made his way down the front of her opened shirt.

"So that's what was out of place downstairs," she realized.

"Mm-hmm," he replied as his lips found one breast.

"So everyone knew about this plan of yours? Earning the money, buying the bed and the linens, moving it all up here, setting it up, moving the couch out – and getting me away from the school for the day?"

"Mm-hmm," he repeated.

She groaned softly, then murmured, "You do realize that that means that Pat, Gy and his entire staff know we're up here, having sex," she pointed out.

He pulled back, startled by the observation. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted – then lay back on the bed, thinking to himself as he savored the comfort of the mattress.

"Jean-Luc?"

"Yes?"

"Is that going to be a problem?"

He considered for a long moment - then met her gaze. "It's disconcerting, I'll admit. Back on the Enterprise it would undoubtedly have presented an issue. It was one thing for everyone to acknowledge that I had a personal life - but what that life entailed was not something I wanted bandied about," he replied.

"I suspect they would have been almost as shocked to discover that it didn't entail much of anything," she reminded him.

"I suppose they would," he conceded. "I doubt they would have suspected that my spare time was filled with unrequited love for my CMO and that any number of sleepless nights were spent alone with my thoughts. Here, though... I won't delude myself by thinking that anyone really cares what I do. At worst, it's mildly embarrassing. I suppose there is a blessing in being insignificant," he admitted.

She lay down beside him, her hand slowly moving up the leg of his jeans, then settling carefully over the fly, caressing him gently. "You're hardly 'insignificant', Jean-Luc," she said breathily. "So tell me, what did you do, alone with your thoughts in your cabin at night?"

He looked at her, bemused. "It wasn't just my thoughts," he replied softly. "I had my needs as well."

"Needs?" she echoed as her fingers sought out the tab of the zipper then slowly drew it down. "My poor captain had needs - and no one to help him with them?"

"No one," he replied, as she reached for the button on his waistband. "And you?" he echoed. "Did you have thoughts? And needs?" he asked, reaching for the front of her jeans in turn.

"It went beyond thoughts and needs. I yearned; I ached," she insisted. "I am a woman of insatiable hungers, you know."

"Indeed," he answered her - then started to sit up. "Perhaps I should warm up that bread pudding?" he added.

She swatted him lightly, then pulled him back to the bed. "Wrong hunger - and I don't want to get crumbs in our new bed," she added, then began to kiss him.

He wrapped her in his arms, their embrace tightening as their kiss deepened, then he pulled back just far enough to murmur in her ear, "Insatiable, eh? I think I like the sound of that."

She laughed softly, then pulled her to him once more.


	29. Chapter 29

April 29

"It is possible to overthink these things," Jean-Luc pointed out as Beverly pulled a long-sleeved shirt over her head, pulled her long red hair into a loose ponytail, then grabbed her purse and draped the strap over her shoulder.

Beverly gave a resigned shrug. "You're right, Jean-Luc, but a month ago Pat _would_ have noticed that I had started to carry a shoulder bag and started to carry lipstick and a pen in my apron. The fact that she hasn't commented on either worries me."

"Maybe she hasn't noticed," Jean-Luc said. "From what I've seen of other women in this time, carrying a purse is quite common; now that we have the wherewithal to afford that type of thing, she might have expected you to secure one for yourself," he said.

"True enough – but apparently it is an accessory that societal protocol demands notice and comment amongst female friends," she countered. "Pat hasn't said anything. I was hoping she would have noticed it a few days ago, so we could have that conversation. Then I could put the tricorder and medkit inside without risking having her ask to see about the construction and features that the purse has. Now I'm going to have to take that chance," she sighed, looking at Picard worriedly.

"You're that concerned?"

"She's wheezing more with every day, and her stamina is non-existent," Beverly said. "She keeps saying she's going to see a doctor – but she never does."

"Do you think that even if you can make a diagnosis you'll be able to convince her to go to a doctor?" he asked.

"No – but I have to try," she replied quietly – then moved closer to him, settling into the warm embrace of his arms. "Thank you," she added softly.

"For?"

"Agreeing to let me do this. I know our resources are limited…"

"Pat is our friend," he interrupted, holding her tight to him. "More than that, she saved us, helped us to survive in this world, helped us find a home here… indirectly, she's helped us to understand that this is our home now, that this is our world – and our obligations must be to this time and place." He paused for a moment, then drew away slightly, looking into her sapphire eyes. " 'You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics'," he murmured. "Gy was willing to risk his business and reputation to help Fred; how can we do less to help Pat?"

He tightened his embrace once more, feeling Beverly's grasp around him tighten in return. "I love you," she whispered.

He drew in a long breath, closing his eyes as her words filled his soul with contentment. "As I love you, Beverly," he said, drawing her into a long and passionate kiss.

She pulled away, smiling up at him. "I'm going to be late, Jean-Luc," she told him.

He glanced at the clock on the bedside table in surprise. "You have more than thirty minutes to get across the street," he protested, remembering how they had both awakened early, anxious to prepare for the day's clandestine 'mission' – a preparation that had only taken a few minutes more than their usual morning rituals.

Grinning, she reached for the front of his bathrobe, untying the belt. "For a man who prides himself on the correct usage of words, you don't listen very well sometimes. I said: I'm _going_ to be late," she repeated, pushing him back toward the bed as she pulled the bag off her shoulder and reached for the hem of her shirt. "Unless," she added, hesitating before she pulled it over her head, "you have an objection, my dear captain?"

He grinned back. "None that I can think of, my dear doctor."

There were times when Jean-Luc could be expeditious, Beverly mused as she hurried across the still quiet street to the coffeeshop – and while she thoroughly enjoyed his efforts at making their love-making sessions into drawn-out affairs of physical and emotional passion, he was also becoming quite adept at what Pat would call a 'quickie'.

Virtually humming with satisfaction, she pulled the store keys out of her pocket, opened the shop and set about the morning routine of preparing the muffins, starting the large coffee brewers and writing up the lunch menus for the day.

It was almost an hour later when the door opened; expecting Pat, Beverly turned to greet her, one hand slipping to the scanner in her pocket – then hastily turned it off as she saw it was Jake from the graphic arts shop down the street, in for his usual coffee and roll.

He greeted her, handing over his travel mug before surveying the day's muffins. "No carrot muffins today?"

"Would I forget your carrot muffin?" she teased, heading into the kitchen, then returning and moment later with a paper bag. "Be careful, it's still hot."

Smiling, Jake reached into the bag, pulled off a piece of the muffin's crunchy top and carefully chewed it as Beverly filled his mug. "Where's Pat?"

"She's running late," Beverly demurred.

"Good thing she's got you here," he replied. "Otherwise I'd have to head over the Dimples and get half a dozen donuts for breakfast."

"I can hardly blame you," Beverly replied, having indulged in the sweet pastries on a few occasions. "They're good donuts."

"Damn straight – but I'd eat all six of them before lunch. Between you, Pat and the muffins, I've lost twenty pounds," he said.

"I'm glad to hear it," she replied, the doctor in her delighting in the man's choice for better health. "We do make a sugar-free version, you know," she answered.

The expression on his face mirrored Beverly's opinion of the baked goods. "Thanks, but no thanks. No offense," he added quickly. "You know the joke: Why are people who eat health foods so skinny?"

She frowned and shook her head. "Why?"

" 'Cause health food tastes like shit," he replied. "So does that fake sugar shit. Gives me headaches to boot. Nope; I'll pick and choose my calories, thank you very much," he concluded. "See you tomorrow, Bev," he added as he took placed his money on the counter, grabbed the mug and headed for the door. "Say hi to Pat when she gets in."

Beverly murmured a farewell, then rang up the sale, thinking to herself.

This was an society of the overweight, she thought, who would deprive themselves of little in the way of indulgences; instead of moderation or self-control, they turned to science to find ways to limit the calories, using artificial sweeteners, fats that couldn't be absorbed, unhealthy diets and patent medications that did nothing to reduce their weight – except by reducing the amount of money in their wallets.

And we cater to that tendency, she sighed; we offer cream for the coffee, oversized muffins, chips with our sandwiches – and no one complains.

Not that I'm much better, she added; I put that cream in my coffee when I should be using the skim milk, she sighed, recollecting that her jeans had seemed a bit tighter this morning than they had been the previous day.

Then again, I am trying to gain weight, she reminded herself – and apparently doing so quite successfully. Now if I could get Jean-Luc to gain some more weight, she sighed.

Still, as she filled her coffee cup, she reached for the skim milk, adding a small measure to the cup, then took a sip.

Or perhaps not, she added with a shudder at the nauseating taste, pouring the mixture into the sink and putting the cup into the washer. Maybe I'll just learn to drink it black.

She turned to the door as it opened a second time – and smiled in relief as Pat entered, her face flushed with effort.

"I'd almost given up on you," she greeted her friend.

"Sorry I'm late, Beverly," Pat said as she pulled off her coat, heading for her office in the back. "Erin called and asked if she could pick up some hours this weekend and I was juggling the schedules to try to give her some time. I hope you don't mind: I told her to come in for the lunch rush, and you can take the afternoon off." She grinned wickedly at the redhead. "The school's closed tonight, and I thought you and John might want to keep breaking in that new bed of yours."

"Actually, we'll probably head over to the laundromat," Beverly countered. "It is Friday night after all," she added with a smile.

"Hmpf. What a waste of a perfectly good afternoon off," she grumbled, then turned back toward her office once again.

Seeing the woman's back turned, Beverly reached into her apron pocket to turn on the scanner once more, only to be interrupted by the door opening and a small crowd of people entering the store. Quickly turning it off, she smiled at them and began to take orders.

It seemed axiomatic, Beverly thought as the day progressed: whenever she had something planned that she _wanted_ to do, the day filled with tasks that _needed_ to be done.

Today, the stream of customers seemed unending; every time the store would empty out, Beverly would reach into her pocket to turn on the scanner – only to hear the chime of the delivery door ringing. The early spring weather seemed to lure the businessmen of the areas out of the offices and shops earlier than usual as well; the lunch rush, which usually started at eleven thirty was in full swing at eleven today, making Erin's request for extra hours – and her early arrival – almost providential, even as it made any possibility of Beverly's early departure unlikely.

And it was going to be equally unlikely that she'd be able to scan Pat while Erin was in the store, Beverly added unhappily.

Tomorrow, then, she sighed as she filled a bowl with chili, added a cornbread muffin and called out the customer's name.

It was well after one when the crowds finally thinned and they were able to catch up on cleaning the store, filling the dishwasher with used plates, cups, bowls and silverware – and begin the hasty process of reordering supplies for the following day.

"If I can call it in by two," Pat said as she looked over the remaining ingredients on the shelves, "we can get it delivered this afternoon. Beverly, we're going to need a gross of eggs if we're going to do the breakfast omelets – and add three pounds of the chopped ham. Double up on the cheddar while you're at it. Erin," she continued, glancing at the college student who had joined the coffeeshop staff a few weeks before, "can you stay until the delivery gets here? He should be in by five. Teague can help you put everything away," she added, raising herself slowly as she pressed a hand into the small of her back, groaning softly.

"You okay, Pat?" Erin asked.

"My back's bothering me," the older woman muttered. "Must have thrown it our yesterday; it's been aching all day," she added, "and the ibuprofen's making me nauseous."

"Man," Erin agreed, "sorry to hear it!. My mom's always bitching about how her back's hurting… Pat? Pat?"

Hearing the sudden worry in the young woman's voice, Beverly looked up from the order sheet just in time to watch Pat slowly sink to the floor. "Pat?" she echoed worriedly, hurrying to the woman's side.

"My back…" she wheezed. "Hurts. Can't breathe…" she added, then slumped to the ground.

Beverly stared for a moment – then felt every emotion fade away. She placed two fingers along her carotid artery, then lowered her head to Pat's chest.

"What's wrong? What's happening?" Erin said, her voice rising in panic.

"I think Pat's having a heart attack," she replied, her voice flat with perfect control. "Help me get her onto her back," she said. When Erin didn't move, she raised her voice, calmly ordering,"Turn Pat onto her back , Erin."

The firm tone overrode the rising terror in the young woman; she knelt beside the woman, helping Beverly turn Pat over then straightening her legs. "She's not going to die, is she?" Erin cried.

Beverly ignored the girl for a moment, checking the woman's pulse again, then lowering her head to her chest. "She's not breathing and there's no pulse. We need to do cardiac resuscitation."

Erin looked at Beverly in undisguised panic. "I don't know how…"

"I do," Beverly replied then looked at the girl sternly. "I need you…"

"I don't know how!" Erin cried out, her hands rising to her face as she started to back away.

Beverly grabbed the young woman's hands, and met her eyes. "Listen to me, Erin. I need you to do exactly as I say. Call emergency services…"

"What? What are emergency services?" she replied, terror overcoming her.

Beverly thought desperately, trying to recall what term the locals used for the emergency medical service team. "9-1-1," she answered. "Erin, I need you to call 9-1-1. Now," she added, pushing the girl toward the phone as she turned back to Pat. She quickly checked the woman's heartbeat and breathing – and finding none, felt along Pat's rib cage for the right point and began to perform chest compressions.

Erin fumbled with the phone for a moment, then started to hand it to Beverly.

"You're going to have to talk to them," she managed as she continued the manual compressions. "Tell them we need an ambulance at the coffeeshop. Give them the address. Tell them Pat has had a heart attack. Tell them we're doing resuscitation."

The girl repeated the words, then looked at Beverly in terror. "They say they're on the way," she said. "They said I shouldn't hang up," she added.

"Okay," Beverly answered. "Just put it on the ground next to me."

Erin nodded mutely, setting the small device beside Beverly.

"Now, I want you to run over to the martial arts school and get John. Tell him what's happened and tell him I need him over here," she ordered.

Erin stared blankly at the doctor. "What?"

"I'm doing two hundred compressions per minute, Erin," she explained hastily. "I can't keep this up for long. John knows how to perform the technique; we can take turns until the ambulance gets here. Now go!" she ordered firmly.

Erin stared for a moment – then turned, yanked the door open and headed for the school.

As soon as the door closed, Beverly stopped the compressions, pulling the scanner from her pocket, flipped it on, and began to run it over Pat's chest.

_Full cardiac arrest_, she determined as she read the information. _Damage to the heart muscle from obstructed coronary arteries. _Prognosis: none, she thought. Unless she could restore blood flow to the heart, the muscle would die – and while Beverly didn't know much about the medical procedures of this time, she knew that there was little chance they could get Pat prepared and into surgery in time to save her life.

Standing, she hurried to where she had left her purse, fished out her tricorder and medkit and began an intensive scan of her friend – then reached into the medkit.

Two cc's of medrazine, she prescribed, then injected the fluid into the artery at Pat's neck then began to resume the chest compressions.

As the medication reached the obstructed vessels, it should quickly begin to break down the obstructions she knew; within minutes, she should see the blockage clearing.

One eye on the scanner, she continued pumping Pat's chest – then glanced up as the door chime sounded.

"John!" she called out.

He started to hurry to her side, Erin right behind him – then seeing the tricorder, he hastily turned. "Erin, we need someone to wait outside for the ambulance. Can you do that?"

The relief on the young woman's face was unmistakable; it was evident that the last place she wanted to be was inside the shop where her boss was lying on the floor, possibly dying. She pulled back and ran for the door.

"John," Beverly said as he took his place opposite from her, "I need you to take over compressions."

She glanced significantly at the phone lying beside her, then looked meaningfully at her medkit.

He nodded his understanding, moving his hand directly atop Beverly's, then continuing her efforts as she pulled her hands back.

Reaching for the kit, she prepared a second hypospray, measuring the fluid carefully, then pressed it to Pat's neck.

It hissed softly – but whatever reaction Beverly was expecting didn't occur.

Clearly surprised, Beverly glanced at the hypo, ejected the cartridge, pressed a new one into place – then pressed it against the woman's neck once more.

A moment later, she heard what she had been expecting: the soft sigh of an exhalation, then the faint draw of a small inhalation.

"Stop the compressions, John," she ordered, then pressed a finger to the side of Pat's neck – and looked at him, nodding slowly.

"I've got a pulse," she said.

At the sound of the door bell, the two looked up, then quickly moved back as the EMTs hurried to Pat's side.

Beverly unobtrusively pushed the tricorder and medkit out of the way as Jean-Luc kicked the empty hypo and cartridge under the counter. "She went into cardiac arrest eight minutes ago," she informed the technicians. "I began cardio-pulmonary resuscitation as soon as I confirmed the absence of respiration and heartbeat."

The tech nodded as he placed a stethoscope against Pat's chest. "I've got a heartbeat: thready – but it's steady. Let's get some numbers, get a line in and prep her for transport. Call this in to Delnor and let them know we're coming in," he said to the others with him – then looked up at Beverly. "We'll take it from here, ma'am," he told her.

Beverly nodded, slowly standing up, then reached for the phone. "The technicians are here," she informed the person on the other end of the phone. "Thank you for your assistance," she added before closing the phone and handing it to Jean-Luc.

"You need to call Gy. Tell him what happened and where they're taking Pat," she said.

He reached to take the phone - then noticed that Beverly's hand was trembling.

"Beverly?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm okay," she insisted. "I'm going to go sit down," she added quickly, making her way to Pat's office.

He stared after her for a moment – then quickly punched Gy's number into the phone.

A soft knock at the door drew Beverly upright in Pat's chair; smoothing back her hair, she called out, "Yes?" - then smiled as Jean-Luc entered the room.

"Beverly? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. "Just recovering from the rush of adrenaline. And don't ask if I always have this reaction to these situations: I don't – but it took me some time to overcome the response. My first rotation on triage made me seriously doubt if I had what it took to be a doctor; I was fine – until everything was handled, then I'd lose my lunch. Fortunately for you and me, I haven't had lunch today, so we were spared that. Have they moved Pat yet?"

"They're preparing to do so now. I'm going to get the car, and we can meet Gy over there..."

"Not us," she interrupted. " You."

He raised a brow.

"I can't leave Erin here alone, Jean-Luc," she said quietly.

"You can close the shop," he pointed out.

"I can - but Erin needs someone with her until she comes to terms with what happened. She's young, and I don't think she's ever seen anything like this. I'll admit that this is more Deanna's field than mine, but I can do a little hand holding until she calmed down. And..." She hesitated, "I'm going to have to run the shop for a while, Jean-Luc," she continued, reaching for his hand. "Pat has had a major heart attack, and even with what I did, she's going to need time to recuperate – and that recuperation does not include working at the coffeeshop. It also doesn't include worrying how her business is going to make it if it closes for even a little time. No; I'm going to have to keep this running until she's recovered."

He studied her for a few moments – then nodded. "Quite right," he agreed.

She looked at him for a few moments, then lowered her voice, drawing him closer to her. "Jean-Luc, I think we have another problem."

"Which is…?"

"When I replicated the drugs for the medkit, I only replicated the ones I thought we'd need," she explained.

"Clearly they were the correct ones," he countered.

"They were – but that's not my point. Jean-Luc, when we decided to use the replicator to produce medications you and I might need, I first checked the standard meds in the shuttle's first aid kit. One drug that wasn't there - but that you might need - is medrazine. Fortunately it also is quite effective in alleviating the blockages that can cause heart attacks - and I was able to treat Pat with it.

"Cordrazine, on the other hand, is a standard drug. There was a full vial in the ship's med kit - and I used some of it on Pat."

He nodded, knowing the reputation of the drug as a highly dangerous – but highly effective – cardiac stimulant.

" Jean-Luc, the cordrazine didn't work."

"What do you mean, 'it didn't work'?" he asked blankly.

"You saw me; I gave her 2 milligrams of cordrazine IV – and there was no reaction."

"You gave her two drugs," he pointed out.

"I gave her a second dose of cordrazine," she countered.

"And it did work," he objected. "Maybe she just needed larger dose."

"Excuse me? Do I tell you how to run a starship? Then don't tell me how to care for my patients," she said indignantly. "Two milligrams IV could raise the dead. She didn't react – until I gave her a second dose…"

He looked at her with an expression of vindication.

"…from a different vial - a vial I replicated when with the medrazine," she said. "Jean-Luc, I think the same entropic effect that affected the shuttle's power systems and our biological systems may have affected the drugs that were in the ship's medkit in a similar manner; I'll check them when I get home tonight, but I think they suffered a breakdown of their structures on a molecular level. If I'm right, they are, for all purposes, useless."

He drew a deep breath, taking in the significance of her words. "And if they are useless?"

"Then we need to decide what drugs we want to re-replicate – if any. Replication of medications is energy intensive and it will make a significant impact on the power reserves we have for the replicator. We've already used a substantial amount of those reserves on the drugs I made earlier; from here on out, we're going to have to pick and choose carefully. Fortunately, I already replicated the ones you might need," she added.

"What about the medications you might need?"

Beverly smiled. "My heart isn't from four hundred years in the future; I can probably muddle through with the drugs that are currently available for most – if any – problems I might encounter."

He opened his mouth to object; as his lover, he wanted nothing but the best for her – but as her former captain, he knew her assessment of resource allocation was accurate.

"The good news is that any vaccines we have taken should remain effective since they triggered long-lasting immunological effects rather than transitory chemical ones," she added. "We're protected against most of the endemic diseases of this time as well as those of our time."

One of the paramedics knocked on the door, and the two hastily fell silent as he pushed into the room. "We've got her stabilized and we're going to take her to the hospital now."

"I'll follow you there," Picard informed him, then waited until the man left before looking back at Beverly. "I'll call you as soon as I hear anything," he added, kissing her gently on the top of her head. "Try not to work too late," he added. "You're going to be putting in enough hours in the days and weeks to come."

"I was the head of Starfleet Medical, remember? I know how far I can push myself."

"And then you go past that," he reminded her. "That's why they wanted you as the head of Starfleet Medical – and why every captain in the fleet wanted you as his CMO."

"Except you," she reminded him.

"Including me," he disagreed. "But I wanted you as something more than just my CMO, Beverly. I have since the day I met you. I just wish I had let you know long ago how much you meant to me."

"Then why don't you tell me… tonight?"


	30. Chapter 30

May 6

"Damn it," Gy swore as he snapped his phone shut. "God fucking damn it!"

Seated beside the young man in the office behind the school's training floor, Jean-Luc glanced up from his review of the evening's class plan and looked at his friend. "Is there a problem, Gy?" he asked quietly.

"No," Gy sighed, then amended, "well, yeah, but…"

Picard nodded. "It's none of my business," he acknowledged patiently. "I understand."

Gy sighed again. "It's not that, John – I mean, this business _is_ your business, and whatever affects me affects this business, so it affects you too – but…"

"But it's none of my business," Picard repeated.

"It's not that," Gy repeated. "It's… embarrassing." He fell silent for a moment, studying the desktop intently – then looked up at Picard. "John, what do you do when you realize you can't trust someone?"

Jean-Luc considered for a moment. "I suppose it would depend on who it is. If it was a subordinate, I would try to determine the reason I felt I couldn't trust them – then work to resolve that issue."

"I'm not talking business," Gy quickly interjected. "I'm talking… personal stuff. What would you do if you realized you couldn't trust Beverly?" he asked.

Picard pulled back, startled by the question. "Gy, if Beverly or I have done something…"

"No, no! I meant… hypothetically. You and Beverly have been together for a long time; what if you knew she was lying to you – and you gave her a chance to 'fess up, and she didn't – and then she kept on lying?" he pressed.

The older man raised a brow. "I would think she had a good reason to keep the truth from me, Gy," he said. "But as you said, Beverly and I have been friends for a long time, and our friendship allows for us to act as we deem fit – including having to sometimes act as we feel we must, and trust in the other person to understand. But that's a privilege born of our years together," he added sagely. "That level of faith requires time."

"And we haven't had that time," Gy sighed softly.

Picard nodded, understanding the source of his young friend's unhappiness – but said nothing. After a lifetime spent as a Starfleet officer, he knew there were few ways he could alienate someone faster than by offering unsolicited advice – especially about a personal matter.

And, he added to himself, especially when I am anything but expert in that topic.

He started to return his attention to the class plan as Gy spoke again.

"She lied," he said plaintively.

Sighing, Picard put down the sheet of paper and looked at Gy. "Perhaps it was something she felt she had to lie about," he replied.

"She said she'd go to the hospital with me to visit Ma this afternoon – now she says she has to work today," Gy explained.

"Perhaps she forgot – or perhaps she was called in on no notice…"

"She got fired two weeks ago," Gy interrupted.

"Oh."

The two fell silent for a time – long enough that Picard was about to reach for the class plan once more when Gy began to speak.

"I stopped by the store last week," Gy explained. "I wanted to apologize for having to break our date after Ma had her heart attack – not that I should have to apologize for that, but you know how Cor is - so I stopped by the store with some flowers; I was going to take her out for dinner – and her boss told me that she had let her go a week before. She said Cor had been letting her friends 'borrow' clothes; they had returned them – but they were torn and dirty, smelling of cigarettes… Cor said it wasn't her, but her boss had the store surveillance tapes, and she could see Cor letting her friends try on the clothes… She said she let Cor go without pressing charges providing that Cor didn't apply for unemployment," he sighed.

"I didn't say anything to Cor. I thought if I didn't say anything, she would tell me what had happened – or at least tell me that she got laid off – but she keeps telling me that she has work."

"Maybe she does," Jean-Luc tried awkwardly. "Maybe she's found another position…"

"In this economy? Without any skills?" Gy countered.

"Perhaps she's too embarrassed by what happened to tell you," Picard tried again. "It is rather humiliating, after all."

Gy scoffed at the idea. "I doubt it. I think she hasn't told me because as long as I think she's at work, I won't ask where she is or what she's doing when we're not together – and she won't have to lie about it," he said with dawning realization. "Fuck. I guess I really don't trust her," he muttered.

"Gy," Picard said quietly, "trust, once lost, is very difficult to rebuild – but it can be done," he added. "If it's important to you both…"

"But is it important to her?" Gy countered.

The older man gave his young friend a cautioning look. "That's not something I can answer, Gy – and neither can you. I would, however, give Corinne the benefit of the doubt – and the opportunity to start rebuilding that trust. Talk to her – honestly – about what you both want in this relationship, and where you would like it to go – and what you will both have to do in order to achieve that outcome," he said.

Gy thought for several moments, then nodded – and looked at Picard. "Is that what you and Beverly did? Talked about what you wanted – and where you wanted the relationship to go?" he asked.

Taken aback, Picard hesitated, then shook his head, realizing just how far his own relationship had strayed from that idealistic beginning position. "Not exactly," he conceded, reddening in embarrassment.

Gy smiled. "Didn't think so," he chuckled. "I mean, it sounds great on paper, but in real life, things just sort of… happen, and you try to figure it all out later."

"Indeed," Picard agreed with a sigh.

Before either could speak, the sound of footsteps on the staircase reached them; Gy glanced at his watch, then started to stand up. "That's probably Beverly. Mom asked her to stop by the hospital today, and I told her I'd take her with me. Do you want to come?" he added. "Mom would love to see you," he added.

Picard hesitated. Hospitals of this time period were probably as unappealing as Sickbay was in his own time – and he rarely went willingly into that demesne – but he owed Pat far more than one simple visit would repay, he reminded himself.

"As long as I'm back in time for class," he demurred.

"Believe me, we'll be back early. I don't like hospitals either," Gy said, guessing – correctly – at the reason for his friend's reticence.

"I doubt your mother likes it any better than you do – but she doesn't get to leave," Beverly said as she stood in the office's doorway.

"Hey, Beverly," Gy greeted her.

"Hello, Gy," she answered, then looked at Jean-Luc. "John," she added softly.

Smiling, he reached for her hand, raised it to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the back of it.

"That's going to have to wait, you two," Gy chuckled. "Ma's waiting for us – and I've got to get John back for classes. Come on," he added, pushing past the two.

Confused, Beverly stared after him for a moment, then looked at Jean-Luc. "What's going to have to wait?" she asked.

Picard glanced down at their joined hands then lifted them. "This, presumably," he said - then met her gaze. "But _this_ will not wait." Reaching his free hand behind her head, he pulled her to him and kissed her soundly.

She moved into his embrace with the practiced ease, savoring his kiss and returning it with a passion of her own – then broke away as she heard Gy's impatient cough from the adjacent room.

"We'll finish this later," she promised, then, hands still joined, led him out.

Following her, Picard felt a wash of contentment come over him – followed by a question.

_What exactly do I want from this relationship?_ he asked himself for the first time. _What does Beverly want?_

To his surprise, however, he didn't have an answer.

Sitting upright in her hospital bed, Pat grinned at Gy's ribald joke as Beverly broke out in a chuckle, quickly echoed by Jean-Luc's baritone bark of laugh – then lay back against the mound of pillows behind her.

"Oh, it's good to hear some laughter around here," she sighed happily. "This place can get downright grim at times."

Wordlessly, Jean-Luc agreed with her; despite obvious efforts on the part of someone - or perhaps everyone - the facility, the building bespoke a certain sterility that leached away at the humanity - and the hopefulness - that he would have expected from a place of healing.

As much as he hated Sickbay, there was an unmistakable warmth and hopefulness to that place that this hospital lacked. Perhaps it was the technology, he conceded - there it offered hope for life and health - or perhaps it was something far simpler: his Sickbay had Beverly in it.

"Still, it's better than in the ICU," Pat continued. "That place is noisy! Everyone dashing around, all the machines, people talking all the time… It'll be good to get home," she added.

Beverly's eyes widened in surprise - and happiness. "They're discharging you? When?"

"Tomorrow, "Pat said. "I was pushing for today, but the doctor said I could either go into rehab for a few weeks or have home care…"

"Guess which one Ma decided on?" Gy asked rhetorically.

Ignoring her son, Pat continued, "…but they can't arrange for a home care nurse until tomorrow. So once they get the paperwork done in the morning, I'll be on my way home."

"I could stay with you, Pat, if that would make it easier," Beverly offered.

Pat reached for her friend's hand. "Beverly, that's sweet of you – but I don't think John, here, would appreciate you spending your nights with me instead of him," she said.

To her delight, both Jean-Luc and Beverly promptly blazed red, even as Gy blanched at the comment. "La-la-la-la-la," he sang out, covering his ears. "I'm not listening!"

"And, dear Beverly, I'm going to need to impose upon your good will - and John's - for more than that," Pat continued, growing sober as she spoke.

"Of course, Pat," Beverly said quickly. "Anything you need."

"Anything," Picard echoed. "We both owe you and Gy our lives," he added.

Pat smiled, but her eyes began to tear. "Oh, my dears, you've repaid that a hundred fold. But… Ralph has been talking with the doctors here, and they would like me to step back from the work that I'm doing. Not retire completely, but… slow down."

Beverly sobered quickly as Pat's words registered. "You're closing the coffee shop?"

"No, no! Of course not! Unless, of course, you want me to," she added. "I'd really rather not, though."

"I'm not sure I understand," Beverly replied.

"I want you to think about this before you answer – but I'd like to turn the shop over to you. You'd be the general manager; I'll adjust your pay accordingly. I'll take a portion of the profits to repay my investment in the place, of course, but with a long term plan of it becoming yours. We'll work out the details with the lawyers – if this is what you want," she added hopefully.

Beverly glanced at Picard uncertainly, then back at Pat. "I… I don't know what to say," she answered after a long pause.

"Don't say anything yet. Think about it – and we can talk more after I get home," she added.

"Pat, I'm honored…"

The woman chuckled. "Honored? I don't know if I'd be honored! You know how much work the place takes to keep running! But… I know you can do it – and I know you could make it yours and make it more successful than I can. Just think about it. Talk it over with John – and we'll talk in a few days. All right, my dear?" she said plaintively.

"All right, Pat," Beverly agreed, her head reeling at the news.

"Am I interrupting?" a voice said from the doorway

The four turned to look at the door.

"Sandra?" Gy said, dumbfounded. "What are you doing here?"

"What manners, Gy!" Pat admonished, then waved at the newcomer. "Come in, dearie!" she insisted.

"I'm sorry I'm late," the waitress said as she made her way to Pat's bedside.

"Late?" Gy asked.

"Don't you dare apologize," Pat said, then looked at her son. "Sandra's been good enough to stop in to visit me every day since I had the heart attack," she informed him.

"You have?" Gy gaped.

"If you had been here more often, Gy, you would have known that," Pat confirmed.

"I saw the ambulances at the shop the other day, then found out what happened. I thought Pat might like a visitor," she explained.

Gy smiled warmly. "That's was nice of you," he said.

"Hey, your mom's a nice person," Sandra countered.

"Still, hospitals suck."

"All the more reason to visit people who are stuck there," she replied.

As the two drifted into a quiet conversation of their own, Pat gestured to Beverly and Jean-Luc, drawing them closer. "There is something else I needed to talk about with you two. Nothing major – but ACEN is only a few weeks away – and Ralph is adamant about my not going this year."

"What's ACEN?" Picard asked.

"It's an anime convention," Pat answered.

"Anime?" Beverly asked.

"Japanese animation," she explained.

"And there's a convention for it?" Picard asked.

"Oh, there is indeed," Pat laughed. "Three days and nights of all things otaku – and more. It's a hoot and a half – and we always attend."

"We?" Beverly asked.

"The school. This year Gy is leading a panel discussion on martial arts in anime…"

"And vice versa," Gy offered from the other side of the room.

"And vice versa," Pat confirmed, "and most of the students will be participating in the Japanese culture forums on Saturday morning. I always go as a chaperone – except this year, I can't. So you two are going to have to go in my place," she informed them.

"Pat, I can't!" Beverly exclaimed. "The coffeeshop…"

"Is always closed that weekend. Everyone knows that," she added. "And don't you start, John," she admonished. "The school is closed so the students can participate, so don't go trying to claim that you can't go either. Besides, it's a weekend away for the both of you," she added with a leer. "I have the hotel rooms already booked for Thursday through Sunday; just because you have to play chaperone on Saturday morning doesn't mean you can't have fun the rest of the time!"

Picard looked at Beverly, uncertainty filling his eyes. "I don't know…"

"Goodness gracious, John! I'm not suggesting you cosplay! It's a weekend away! On me! Now say yes – because you're going to have to go to help Gy, so you might as well enjoy yourself. Now go talk to Gy about the details; I want to talk with Bev for a moment," she instructed him, the pulled Beverly down to the bed.

"Here, help me sit up," she said, leaning forward, allowing Beverly to rearrange the pillows behind her, then settled back, a mischievous glint in her eye. "He's looking fine, your John is," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry?"

Pat grinned. "Look at him."

The two women turned to glance at the man, who was standing, leaning back slightly as he spoke to Gy, arms folded, legs slightly parted.

Oh, my! Beverly thought as she studied her lover.

"Not an ounce of fat on him," Pat murmured, "but all those muscles bulging out in all the right places. And the way he stands…"

The two glanced at Picard once again, and Beverly smiled at the way the lines of his wide shoulders narrowed at his waist, drawing her eyes lower to the front of his jeans.

Oh, my, indeed, she thought.

"You're going to have to buy him some new shirts before he rips those to shreds – or before you do," Pat added with a grin. "I don't know what you're feeding him, Beverly, but keep doing what you're doing; I've never seen him – or you, for that matter – looking as fit or as happy as you do now. You're a long way from the scrawny half-drowned river rats Gy found on the bridge last winter," she said – then reached for the woman's hand, squeezing it tightly. "You never know, eh?"

"Know what, Pat?"

"What life has in store. There I was thinking that Gy had brought home more foundlings for me to care for – but if he hadn't, I might not be here now. Thank you, my dear," she whispered.

"Pat…" Beverly began, but Gy's call interrupted the two.

"Ma! Sandra's going as Horo!"

"Then why don't you be her Lawrence?" she replied. "Or you could go as Rok and Revy. Or Motoko and Batou?"

Beverly glanced at Jean-Luc, silently mouthing "Horo?"

He gave her a shake of his head, equally lost.

Pat chuckled. "Cosplay, dearie; dressing up in costumes for specific characters. Don't worry – it's not required," she said with a reassuring pat of her hand, then released it as another head poked around the door.

"Margaret?" Pat said to the brunette woman who peered into the room. "Is everything all right?"

"Just coming to say goodbye, Pat," she said. With a soft smile, she pushed her way past the others, bent over the bed, and placed a gentle kiss on Pat's cheek. "We're taking her home today. It won't be long now – but she didn't want it to be here. I'll call you when… when…" The woman bit her lip, squeezed her eyes shut, then quickly released Pat's hand before hurrying from the room.

Beverly stared after the woman for a moment, then looked at her friend with questioning eyes.

"Margaret Simpson. Her sister was in the bed next to mine in ICU. Poor thing. Final stages of breast cancer. She'd been through everything: lumpectomy, double mastectomy, radiation, chemo… nothing worked," she added quietly. "Poor lamb," she whispered. "Only in her thirties. Two little girls and a husband…" She bit her lip – then forced a smile.

"Time for you all to go, I think," she said softly. "I'd like to be alone for a little bit. But I will be home tomorrow, Gy – and you had better not have left your dishes in the sink," she admonished her son.

"Me?" he said innocently.

Pat rolled her eyes – then waved the others from her room.

In the hall, Gy reached into his pocket, pulled out his car keys and handed them to Picard. "John, would you mind driving yourself and Beverly back? Sandra and I are going to run by her place so I can borrow her copy of 'Spice and Wolf'. I can't remember what Lawrence wears," he said.

"Of course," Picard said, taking the keys, watching as Gy and Sandra headed down the hallway – then turned to face Beverly.

"What is it, Beverly?" he asked quietly.

"The woman Pat was talking about? The one who is dying? I could have saved her, Jean-Luc," she said sadly. "One scan, one injection – and she could have lived."

"I know," he replied. "But you're not a doctor here – and even if you were, you couldn't save them all. We simply don't have the resources," he reminded her.

"No," she agreed. "But…"

"But?"

"But… the treatment for cancer in our time is a phage that's encoded to match the receptors on the cancer cells. I've read articles from two virologists who are on a similar path – though not for treating cancer. If I could get a research oncologist to look at those articles…"

Jean-Luc studied Beverly for a long moment – then realized he had at least in part, an answer to the question he had asked himself earlier that day.

_What did he want from this relationship?_ He wanted, he knew, what he had always wanted – which was for Beverly to be healthy, happy – and fulfilled. And the only way she was going to be fulfilled was in doing what she had always done: healing others.

"All right," he said. "Where do we start?"


	31. Chapter 31

May 20 – part 1

Beverly suddenly released the hands she had been clinging to for the last few minutes, throwing back her head as she arched back, stifling her cries of delight at the wave of pleasure that washed over her – then felt Jean-Luc's hands move to her hips, pulling her tightly against him as he moved into her with the first paroxysms of his own pleasure.

A second orgasm rippled through her as she felt his final thrusts – then gasping, she fell forward, stopping only as his hands moved to her shoulders, catching her, then easing her to his shoulder.

For a time she lay against his bare chest, gasping and shuddering as tremors of residual gratification swept through her, her heart racing, pounding against his chest.

In time, her breathing slowed even as his ragged gasps steadied; lifting her head just enough to turn it, she lay it back on his shoulder once more and smiled.

"Good morning," she whispered, placing a kiss against his shoulder.

He smiled back, reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. Placing a soft kiss upon it, he answered, "Good morning."

Beverly sighed. "It's been a long time since we've done that."

He raised a brow, then turned his head and glanced at the bed side clock. "Only three hours," he countered, smiling back.

"I meant since we made love first thing in the morning," she laughed back.

"Technically, it was morning three hours ago. And six hours ago," he added.

"That was last night," she countered.

"But we finished in the morning," he chuckled back.

"So we did," she murmured, then freed her hand from his, running it over his chest, playing with the grey curls as she admired the muscles of his chest and abdomen.

Sometimes, she reminded herself, you can't see the forest for the trees. I was so wrapped up in seeing how I was recovering from our journey that I never noticed that Jean-Luc was recovering as well – but differently. I saw myself regaining my weight in my breasts and waists and hips – but for him, it was all muscle: arms, and legs and belly…

She allowed herself a contented purr as she ran her hands over the muscles she was considering.  
I forgot that men lay down weight differently than women do – and given the sheer amount of physical work that Jean-Luc had been doing, I should have realized it was going down as lean muscle – while I was gaining softer tissue.

Fat, she chided herself gently. Not that there was anything wrong with that – it was normal physiology for a female of her age. Sixty-plus. Premenopausal. Perhaps she was bit young for that in their time, she added, but given the strange temporal effects of their transit to this time, entirely possible.

She gave a soft sigh, wishing that she and Jean-Luc hadn't waited so long before they had become involved – but then again, the idea of having a family with him had never been a possibility back in their timeline. A dream, yes – but a pipe dream. Not a realistic possibility. Not while they were both in Starfleet; not while they were serving together.

And perhaps reaching menopause wasn't the tragedy that she first thought it was: yes, they would never be able to have children together, but they would gain a degree of sexual freedom in return.

After all, she mused, their birth control implants wouldn't last forever; after she and Jean-Luc had first become lovers, she had made the calculations about when she had administered both of the implants, and realized that they would only have about seven months before both failed and they would have to consider other forms of birth control.

At least there were options, she added, though the twenty-first century's ideas were primitive at best. Altering a woman's hormonal balance to prevent ovulation? A gross solution to a problem that required finesse, she thought. Barriers? Messy and not exactly conducive to spontaneous lovemaking.

And prophylactics? She shuddered, appalled by the idea of not being able to feel Jean-Luc's flesh within her when they were making love. No matter how sheer or how fine, it would not be the same as feeling his flesh pressed against hers.

No, perhaps the hormonal changes she was being to encounter weren't the worst thing that could happen to them, she conceded; once the implant failed completely, though, she'd have to address some of the other symptoms, including gaining even more weight in her hips, waist and breasts – not that Jean-Luc had complained about any of that! – which meant that the exercise that she had recently begun to help that convert that fat into muscle would have to become a routine practice for the rest of her life.

Finding the time to exercise hadn't been a simple matter, either; with Pat no longer at the coffeeshop, she had found herself working from open to close almost every day, dragging herself back to their apartment late every afternoon, falling into bed, trying to catch a nap before Jean-Luc was done with his classes so that they could spend at least some time together every night. Finding the spare hour to work out was almost as challenging as her work.

For his part, Jean-Luc had taken charge of all of the household duties: cleaning – what little there was to be done, laundry – even coming to the coffeeshop on Saturdays and Sundays to cook a week's worth of dinners.

Or so he said; more often than not, he simply found a chair at the back of the kitchen and chatted with her as she worked.

Chatted, she chuckled. It wasn't chatting. It was her survival. He pressed her about the articles she was reading in medical journals, asking her about the information, about her thoughts and ideas, forcing her to think, to extrapolate, to think inductive and deductively – to remind her that she was a physician, a researcher, a scientist.

She looked at him, then leaned close and placed a soft kiss on his lips. "I love you," she said, then pulled back, tracing a line down his ribs to his waist to where their hips met…

"I think I'll need a few more minutes, Beverly," he told her regretfully.

She laughed softly, then straightened herself slightly, kissed him again, then slowly rolled over, still straddling his hips. With a hiss of discomfort, she slowly eased herself off him then carefully rose from the bed, her legs still trembling from the exertions of their lovemaking. "I appreciate the idea, Jean-Luc, but we're supposed to meet Gy downstairs for breakfast in an hour. Mind if I shower first?" she asked.

"We could shower together," he suggested.

She raised a brow. "I thought you said you needed a few more minutes," she teased.

His eyes grew dark. "I do… but you have ways of inspiring me, my dear," he replied.

"Just keep that thought," Beverly answered as she let her eyes roam over his naked body, sprawled across the hotel room bed. "Once Gy's panel is over, the rest of the day is ours."

He grinned, watching as she turned away. Reaching where their suitcase lay opened on the floor, she bent over, affording him a magnificent view of her posterior – and more – as she sifted through their belongings, then slowly straightened after retrieving clothes.

"You did that on purpose," he said.

She turned, struck a provocative pose, and lowered her voice. "Inspiration, my dear captain; inspiration."

Twenty minutes later, Jean-Luc stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, then glanced at Beverly who stood before the bathroom mirror dressed in her underwear, half of her attention focusing on brushing her long auburn locks, the other half on the papers on the bathroom counter.

"Oncolytic viruses mediating anti-tumor immunity?" he asked, standing close behind her. "A little light reading?" he teased.

Oblivious to the remark, Beverly simply nodded. "These two are on the right trail – I think. The human trials are showing some positive results, but not conclusive ones. They've got the right idea about the identifiers, but they're focusing on the macroreceptors – looking for the big sites. It's too big; they'll link to them – but they'll link to all of them. The peripheral damage could be prohibitive. I really need to find out where they went with their research," she sighed.

"How do we do that?" he asked.

"We don't," she answered with a smile. "Unless we can get me to a proper medical university library."

He looked at her image in the mirror. "Aren't there several in the area?"

"Of course – but nothing close. And I think you need to have a student identification card to get access," she added.

He smiled, moved close to her, and wrapped his arms around her. "I can't think of a better use for our replicator," he murmured.

"I can," she protested. Her recent realization about the passage of time had reminded her that Jean-Luc was aging too, but the changes she was facing, the medicine of this age had no way to handle his possible medical needs. No, she decided, what reserves they had in replicator power needed to be saved for the important things – like him.

Thoughts of their mortality faded as he began to kiss the side of her neck. "Mmmm, Jean-Luc…"

Glancing down at her attire as he nuzzled her neck, he pulled away just far enough to murmur, "Those are new."

"Mm-hmm. I bought them for this trip. Like them?"

"I do. White lace. Very… virginal," he said, his voice an erotic baritone.

She turned to face him, a low chuckle deep in her throat. "Virginal?" she scoffed. "I think what we did last night – and this morning – disproves any thoughts of my being 'virginal'!"

Pressing close to her, he returned his attention to her neck, his hand wandering to gently envelope her breast and she felt his growing erection pressing against her. "Unless, of course, you have some unrequited fantasies about virgins," she purred.

"None," he admitted. "Just fantasies about beautiful redheads in white lace lingerie."

"Oh? And what fantasies are those?"

"There's one about making love with her in a hotel bathroom…"

"Is that the one where they have to be at breakfast with their co-workers in half an hour?" she asked.

He nodded. "That's the one."

She chuckled, then reached for his towel, pulling it free. "Who am I to come between a man and his fantasies?" she asked.


	32. Chapter 32

May 20 – part 2

Despite the warmth of the day, the early morning air had taken a decided turn for the brisk, and drenched in sweat from two hours on the dance floor, Beverly found herself shaking with every cool brush of air.

Seeing her discomfort, Jean-Luc swiftly put his arm around her, holding her against him.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"My pleasure," he replied. "I can't have you catching cold - not when we have to chaperone the students in less than six hours."

Beverly smiled at him in the minimal light of the early, early morning. "You just don't want to take care of them by yourself," she teased.

"No," he conceded, "but I won't be by myself. Gy will be there, Fred, Eugenia..."

"Of course she'll be there," Beverly interrupted. "Whenever she hears that you're at an event, she immediately volunteers."

"She's there because of Doria," Picard protested patiently.

"Of course she is," Beverly agreed.

And she was, Beverly conceded quietly; a single mother, Eugenia Clifton did an admirable job of supporting her daughter financially and emotionally - which included attending Taekwondo classes three times a week - all of which Eugenia sat through, her eyes carefully watching her only child - and occasionally drifting over the form of her daughter's teacher.

More than occasionally, Beverly corrected herself, having caught Eugenia's eye wandering over Jean-Luc's body quite a few times.

Of late the statuesque blond had taken to volunteering to assist Jean-Luc with a number of chores around the school: taking attendance, posting signs, updating the website... In general, Beverly thought, finding excuses to be near Jean-Luc whenever possible - and whenever Beverly wasn't around.

Not that Eugenia was hostile in any way toward her, she admitted; while not overly friendly, she was always polite and amicable, Beverly thought; Jean-Luc would never see her as being anything but a good mother and a friend to the school - until, of course, he decided that she could be more. To him.

Beverly sighed. She had encountered that type of woman throughout her life, and had long ago realized that alerting a man to the machinations of a would-be lover would only result in accusations of jealousy or paranoia.

Except, of course, Jean-Luc wasn't just 'a man', she reminded herself; he was an experienced Starfleet captain who had dealt with species from the Ferengi to the Orions; he knew all there was to know about duplicity and scheming. He would know when he was being manipulated, she told herself firmly.

Still...

"You're jealous?" he asked softly.

"No," Beverly responded hesitantly.

"But you are worried," he countered.

"Yes," she admitted. "She is beautiful, and young, and... you are a man," she reminded him.

"You have that little faith in me?" he asked lightly, though his voice hinted at a touch of concern.

She sighed, stopped and turned to face him. "You have to admit, Jean-Luc, that your one weakness is in your personal relationships. It's one reason why you never wanted one while you were the captain; you knew it was the one place where people could manipulate you," she reminded him, then reminded him softly, "Gul Dukat convinced you to stay in that... that hellhole... by telling you that I had been captured."

"Yes," he answered softly, "he kept me there - willingly - because he told me that he had _you_." The emphasis was soft but unmistakable.

She looked into his hazel eyes, seeing in them the days and weeks of pain and torture he had endured - and the knowledge that he would have endured that - and worse! - to spare her.

She closed the brief distance between them, placing her head against his chest. "Forgive me," she apologized. "I should have known better."

"You should have," he agreed, then tightened his embrace. "Even if Eugenia does have exceptional legs," he added.

She pulled back, playfully swatting his arm - then allowed him to wrap it around her once more.

"Indeed," he murmured a moment later, "if anyone should have cause to be jealous, it should be me: our Mr. Grancher seems quite smitten with you, my dear."

"I know," she sighed, "And I'm not quite sure what to do about it. Jean-Luc, I'm old enough to be his grandmother," she reminded him.

"Clearly he doesn't see it that way," he pointed out.

"Maybe he should," she replied. "Maybe if he realized just how much older I am than he is..."

"You're going to have a hard time proving that," Picard interrupted. "You just spent two hours in that..." His voice trailed off.

"It's called a rave," she said. "Not to be confused with tomorrow night's..."

"Tonight's," he corrected her. "It's already three in the morning."

"Not to be confused with tonight's dance," she continued smoothly.

"Rave," Picard continued, "where you outdanced - if that was dancing - almost everyone present. You're not going to convince him that you're verging on decrepitude when you move like that. "

Beverly smiled at the tone in his voice. " 'Like that'?" she echoed. "You liked the way I danced?"

"If you call it dancing," he said. "But yes," he replied, "I liked watching the way you danced."

"Watching? Let me point out that you managed to keep up with me the entire night," she pointed out, "though I agree that bouncing and gyrating to flashing lights and drum beats isn't exactly what I would have considered as dancing. Still, it was quite... invigorating," she said, her voice lowering into a sultry seductive tone.

He looked at her, astounded. "Beverly..." he started, then stopped, flummoxed by her once again. "Where do you get the energy?"

She smiled, remembering his movements on the dance floor - and the fact that in the overcrowded room, he had been unable to move more than a few inches away from her body . "You... inspire... me, my dear captain," she purred back.

Despite his own exhaustion, he was hardly one to pass up the opportunity to make love with Beverly - especially after waiting for so many years to do so. Releasing her from his grasp, he took her hand in his and began to lead her through the people still milling about on the sidewalk, talking, laughing, stumbling and dancing along the long sidewalk as they made their own way back to their hotel rooms.

"Careful there," Picard called out suddenly, neatly snagging the sleeve of a young man who was on the verge of stumbling into the street and the path of the oncoming traffic as he moved around a patch of mud left by an unexpected mid-afternoon rainstorm, pulling him back to the safety of the walk.

Slightly befuddled, the man glanced at the street, then back at Jean-Luc - and smiled. "Dude," he said beatifically, then meandered past them.

"I assume that means thank you," Picard murmured.

Beverly gave a shake of her head. "I worry about these people. This… obsession… with alcohol that so many of them have…" She looked at him. "You heard those girls at the breakfast this morning, talking about getting drunk before the convention even opens! I don't understand it."

"Alcoholism isn't something unique to this century, Beverly," he reminded her. "We have our fair share of people who become physically and emotionally addicted to substances in our time as well."

"Addiction I can understand, Jean-Luc – but this wasn't addiction. This was a calculated plan to become inebriated," she protested.

"I would suppose that you could attribute it to youthful disregard to the facts, Beverly – and a disregard of the danger. Maybe even their way of expression their independence. Heaven knows I did more than my fair share of stupid – even reckless – stunts after I left home," he admitted – then raised his free hand to the center of his chest, where Beverly knew a faint line marked his chest, a physical memento of his encounter with a Nausicaan blade.

"So you approve this behavior?" she asked in surprise.

"Approve? No – but I do understand." He gave a faint chuckle. "Don't tell me you never did anything that your grandmother didn't declare as being foolhardy," he replied.

Beverly sighed, then shook her head. "I did – and so did Wes," she added. "Perhaps sometimes the only way we can prove our existence to ourselves is in risking it," she added. "Still, the alcohol – and this entire event! – smacks of a degree of escapism, of trying to avoid the issues of their real lives."

"Ah, but it's not escapism," he replied. "Or rather this event isn't. I agree: That's what I thought when Gy first described this – that here a tens of thousands of people trying to shed their real lives by hiding in characters that often have no resemblance to the world that really exists. But after a while, I began to realize that this isn't escapism. After all, Beverly, Gy isn't one to escape his responsibilities - and neither is Pat - and yet they both participate in this every year. If this was simply about hiding from real life, why would they be here?

"And that's when I realized that this isn't about hiding from reality at all: rather, it's the equivalent of their holodeck. These people aren't running away from their lives: they're simply exploring a different one. Consider this: For the most part, these people truly know their characters and the world they inhabit; they've extensively researched their roles, studied the characters, put hundreds of hours and hundreds or dollars into some of these costumes..."

"You make it sound as though they're acting," she smiled.

"It's more than acting: they're living these roles. For a day or two, at least," he added, "then they'll return to their 'real' lives, refreshed, energized, invigorated. It's a release, an adventure, no different from when you and I travel to San Francisco of the 1940's on the holodeck and reenact a Dixon Hill novel," he pointed out.

She gave a low chuckle, then stopped, turned to him and gave a sad smile. "I guess it's not that different from our situation, Jean-Luc – except we're in a world we don't know, acting out roles we never had planned - and in two days, we don't get to take the costumes off and go home," she added, then moved close to him, inviting his comforting embrace. "This is our world now, even though we didn't ask for it," she sighed.

No, he agreed silently, we didn't. But…

But it's a world I'm coming to relish, he admitted to himself – and a role I'm enjoying. A teacher, a business person of some ability, a member of a community that accepts me not because of my rank or history, but for who I am.

That Beverly couldn't share that enthusiasm was something he understood; here she couldn't be the physician she was in their time; here, while she was successful in what she was doing, she found little personal satisfaction in her work – and try as she might, her efforts on the periphery of modern medicine was anything but fulfilling.

Yes, they had each other – the one thing that they had not permitted themselves in their own timeline – but was that enough for her? he asked himself.

If Will were to appear here tomorrow and told us we could return if we wanted, he thought as he held Beverly against him, he knew she would accept instantly.

But would I?

To return to what? he asked himself. It wasn't the first time he had considered the options that would lie before them both – but unlike Beverly, to whom five months away from her work meant little in terms of missed opportunities, Starfleet Command wouldn't be likely to return him to his current post. Indeed, it would probably give them the opportunity they had been seeking to remove him from the front lines and place him where they thought he could best serve the Federation – seated behind a desk on some planet. It was not a thought he enjoyed.

It was all, of course, a moot point; of all the billions of moments from this time until the one that marked their disappearance from their timeline, how could anyone ever find the one where they were trapped? And given that they hadn't been rescued by now, the odds were that they never would be.

And so we lead a life that neither of us had planned or expected, he told himself – and make the best of it that we can.

He looked into the eyes he had loved for so long, and knew with a certainty that filled his soul to its depths, that whatever the future held for them, there was one thing he would never give up. "I love you, Beverly," he told her quietly, then, releasing her from his arms, he took her hand and led her back to their room.


	33. Chapter 33

June 8

A sound, faint and vague, tugged at the depths of Picard sleeping mind.

Pushing it back, he ignored it, permitting sleep to pull him into its depths once again – but a moment later the sound repeated, calling from his slumber with increasing urgency.

Half sleep, he turned over, reaching for Beverly, only to find her place in the bed empty – and cool to his searching touch.

It took a moment for the sensation to register, and a moment longer for its meaning; opening his eyes, he confirmed what his hand had told him – that Beverly was indeed out of the bed, and that she had been gone for some time.

He sat up – and the sound reached him once again, its source unmistakable.

Reaching for his robe as he rose from the bed, he pulled it on hurriedly as he moved from toward the bathroom – then hesitated. He tapped on the closed door gently, softly calling, "Beverly? Are you all right?"

"Don't come in!" she answered quickly in a voice that was raspy and weak.

Despite her order, he opened the door a fraction and risked a quick glance.

Inside, she knelt before the toilet, her face white and drawn, her skin soaked in sweat, grasping the sides of the bowl with hands that shook.

"Beverly!" he repeated, hurriedly opening the door, moving to her side.

"Don't, Jean-Luc," she repeated wearily. "Just give me a minute," she added.

He waited, watching as she flushed the toilet – then moved the few inches to where the bathtub stood; turning on the faucet, she moved her head beneath the stream of water, rinsing her face in its flow, then opening her mouth to rinse it out as well.

Spitting out a mouthful of the water, she pulled back, only to lean against the edge of the tub in exhausted resignation – then managed a tired smile. "I smell terrible," she said in a hoarse voice.

"Beverly," he repeated once more, hurrying to her side, stripping off his robe and wrapping it around her shivering body. "What is it?" he asked as he pulled her into his arms. "What's wrong?"

She lay her head on his shoulder, and he felt the heat radiating from it. "You're hot."

"Dehydration," she confirmed. "I've been throwing up for the last hour. In the terms of this period, I think I have the flu," she said. "Sore throat, sore muscles… nausea," she added, trying not to smile at that obvious revelation.

"Can you move?" he asked worriedly, then added, "Should you?"

Beverly nodded. "I think the vomiting has passed," she said. "At least I hope it has. My mouth tastes awful."

He smiled. "I can imagine," he agreed, then wrapped his arms around her, carefully helping her to her feet. "Let's get you back in bed," he said, guiding her from the bathroom and back into their small living space.

Pulling back the blankets, he guided her onto the edge of the bed and helped her to sit down, then hurried to their dresser and found her nightgown.

"Here," he said, slipping it over her head, helping her feed her arms through the long sleeves, then pulled it down, covering the long legs that he so adored.

"See," she laughed tiredly, "I knew I get a chance to wear this some time."

Smiling at their private joke, he answered, "It looks as lovely on you as it does on the floor," he assured her, then wrapping his arm around her shoulders, helped her to lie down, covered her with the blanket – then pulled the bed cover over her as well.

"I'm going to get your medkit," he told her.

"Jean-Luc, it's just the 'flu' – a virus. It'll run its course in a matter of days."

He frowned, thinking that the drugs in the med kit would prove a faster answer to the problem, but acceded to her expertise. "Can I get you something? Tea? Water?"

Beverly frowned at the thought of trying to put anything in her convulsing stomach, but she knew Jean-Luc wouldn't relent until he had done something to help her.

"Water," she said. "Just water. Don't worry, Jean-Luc. I'll be fine."

He hurried to the sink, drawing a glass of cool water for her, then returned to the bed, supporting her as she sipped a few drops of the liquid.

"That's enough," she insisted. "Just leave it here. I'll drink some more in a few minutes. I just have to get some sleep…" she added, closing her eyes. "Not too much," she added sleepily. "I've got to get up in a couple of hours to open the shop…"

Her voice trailed off as sleep took hold of her; worried, he lay a hand on her head, and feeling the heat radiating from it, frowned.

Beverly might well have the flu, he thought to himself, but if she did, it was because of him. And because of herself, he added; having accepted Pat's pleas to take over the store, she had done so with her usual unrelenting energy, helping to keep the business open in the light of the owner's absence – and had done a spectacular job.

But even as she had worked to maintain Pat's business, she had maintained her own efforts to help these people develop cures for the ailments that afflicted too many of them. Reading every journal she could find, she had taken to writing to the authors, pointing out areas where the work was inconsistent or conflicting – always done without animosity, and always done in such a way that a willing mind might take her ideas and experiment with them on his own.

Added to that was her insistence on taking the hundred of padds that she had collected at that last conference and funneling through the information they contained, seeing if there was something that could help these people in their own research; rare was the night when he didn't come up from the do jahng to find her asleep on their bed, articles and padds spread out around her.

None of which had kept her from being a loving partner, he added, a wash of guilt covering him as he thought to the intensity – and frequency – of their recent passions; of late, she had been even more ardent, more intense in their lovemaking – and more eager. Even in the light of her building exhaustion, he had never turned down her request to make love.

No wonder her body had finally found the point where it couldn't continue, he thought, staring at her as she shivered beneath the thick blankets. Overdriven and overworked, she needed to rest.

And it's my turn to accept the responsibility for caring for her, he added. Wrapping himself in his robe once more, he soaked a washcloth in cool water, wrung it out, then returned to her side. Placing it on her forehead, he watched as she shivered at the touch, then saw her body slowly relax as the heat was eased.

After a time, she turned, rolling on one side as the depths of sleep claimed her; he pulled the blankets over her exposed shoulder, glanced at the bedside clock and rose from the bed.

"Sleep," he said softly to his lover, then moved to the closet.

Beverly woke slowly, gradually gaining awareness of herself and her surroundings.

Despite a dull ache in her joints, an overwhelming sense of fatigue, the terrible taste in her mouth, the smell of vomit filling her nose and the vestiges of a headache that did not want to go away, she felt… better.

Exhausted – but better.

Good enough to get up and go to the coffeeshop? she asked herself, knowing that she was far too ill to manage that feat – but knowing equally well that she had no choice.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then imagined herself going through the process of getting off the bed, getting to the shower, pulling on something that looked acceptable for working, finding her keys and getting across the street…

After a moment she opened her eyes and looked down at herself, realizing unhappily that she had done none of the things she had just imagined.

She lay back for a moment, then decided she could afford a few more minutes of sleep; that might be enough to give her the energy she needed to make it through the day – or at least until Teague came in that afternoon…

She pushed herself up far enough to be able to look at the clock at the bed side table – and swore.

Eight thirteen.

The shop should have opened more than two hours ago! I should have been there three hours ago! Damn it, why didn't Jean-Luc wake me up! she swore, trying to lift herself up enough to find her lover. He knows I have to get the shop open!

The act of raising her body instantly reminded her that she was sick; falling back against the bed, she gave a groan of misery, then called out to him.

"Jean-Luc! Jean-Luc!" she rasped weakly, first in outrage – and then with increasing concern. "Jean-Luc!"

When he failed to respond, she pushed herself up once more, trying to sit up, only to have a wave of dizziness and nausea roll over her once more. Damn it! she cried in anger and frustration. I have to get to work!

Standing was clearly out of the question, she knew – but she could crawl into the bathroom, she decided.

Half an hour later – and with no sign of Jean-Luc in their apartment – she managed to get herself down the stairs and across the street. Reaching the shop, she took the keys from her pocket, started to insert them into the lock – then realized that the shop was open, the lights on, and the door unlocked.

And Jean-Luc was standing at the front of the counter, talking to more than a dozen people.

As she opened the door, a chuckle rang out from the people gathered around the man. "No shit," one of them muttered. "Fucking incredible," he added.

As Beverly opened the door, his head turned to see who his latest customer was, but on seeing who it was, his amicable smile was replaced by a grimace of worry.

"Beverly!" he called out, then hurried to her side.

"Jean…" she began.

"What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in bed!" he admonished her as she leaned heavily against him.

"I had to go to work…" she tried to protest.

"You need to rest. I left you a note, telling you to sleep, that I'd take care of everything," he added.

A note? she thought fuzzily. I didn't see a note.

There was a chortle of laughter, and several of the customers moved to the couch. "He took care of us all right. He couldn't figure out how to run the espresso machine so he told us we all had to drink tea!"

"At least he got the muffins right," another voice added.

Beverly looked up at her lover in fevered confusion. "John…?"

Pressing a hand to her head, he felt a surge of heat, then shook his head. "Beverly, you're sick and you need to rest," he said firmly, then glanced around the room. "I'm going to take Beverly home. I'll be back in five minutes," he added.

"Not to worry, John," one of them replied. "The shop is safe with us."

"Muffins might be gone by then," someone else added.

Ignoring the comment, Picard moved his arm to envelope Beverly – then decided that making her walk the short distance back to the school was too much effort. With an effortless sweep, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the shop.

"Damn," one of the customers muttered as he watched Picard carry her across the street and into the school. "Don't let my wife hear that he did that; she'll want me to pick her up – and I don't think my back could take it," he muttered.

There was a general chuckle of agreement – then someone asked, "Anyone want more tea?"

Five minutes quickly turned into ten, but Jean-Luc got Beverly settled back into her nightgown and into their bed with a minimum of effort, albeit with a maximum of protest from his 'patient'.

"Jean-Luc, I'm fine. It's just a virus…"

"Then take the day off, rest, and go back tomorrow," he insisted. "I can handle everything until Teague gets there."

"You don't even know how to make espresso," she protested weakly.

"They'll live without their espresso for one day – and everyone understands. They'll suffer through regular coffee and tea and my old stories – as long as they know you're getting better. Now, I'm going to get your scanner, and you're going to give yourself whatever you need to get better," he said firmly.

"That's not necessary," she protested, only to see him shake his head.

"It is necessary, Beverly; you want to get back to the store – but that's not going to happen until you're better. No you can be stubborn and let this virus run its course – which might take a day or a week – or you can treat yourself and go back tomorrow. Which one will it be?" he asked firmly.

She sighed, knowing she had lost the fight, then nodded. "All right; get my kit," she said.

Retrieving the scanner, he handed it to her, watching as she snapped it open – then squinted, pulled the scanner closer, then pushed it away – and finally handed it back to him. "You're going to have to read it. My vision's too fuzzy," she admitted.

Chuckling, he turned on the scanner, adjusted the settings for human female, then waited for her to pass the scanner over herself. After a moment, she turned off the scanner and looked at him expectantly. "What does it say?"

"Elevated temperature," he said, confirming the obvious, "electrolyte balance is off…"

"The vomiting," Beverly explained.

"Glucose levels are low."

"No surprise there," she sighed. "Below the yellow line?"

"No; just over it," he answered.

"Then I can wait until my stomach calms down."

"There's a red triangle flashing…"

"Pain levels; this headache is getting intense," she explained. "You can get me a hypo of analgesic," she added.

Smiling, he retrieved the requested drug and handed it to her; having performed emergency first aid, he knew how to administer a hypospray – but somehow, he never managed it as easily as she seemed to.

Pressing the device against her own neck, she thumbed the switch, then felt the jolt of coolness penetrate her skin. Almost instantly the pain began to recede – but not to disappear completely.

Need to treat the cause then, she sighed. And anti-viral should handle it, she told herself – but which one?

"Set the scanner to level 3A, Jean-Luc; I need to know a little about the virus so I can give myself the right drug," she said.

Closing her eyes against the ache that the light caused, she listened as she heard the scanner move through the programs, then listened again as he passed the scanner over her – but to her surprise, he said nothing.

"What does the readout show?" she pressed a moment later.

"Nothing. Nothing out of the normal, that is," he added, the confusion evident in his voice.

"Nothing?"

"All values within human female norms," he recited.

"Then it's not a virus," she said. "Bacterial, maybe," she said, but her medical experience hinted against that possibility.

A saddening thought struck her. If she was right and she was entering menopause, the symptoms could be a result of the hormonal imbalance – what was often called estrogen dominance. In and of itself it was a troublesome condition – often resulting in the symptoms she was experiencing – not dangerous, but it was an affirmation of what she had suspected – that her time with Jean-Luc would be time spent as lovers only, and never as parents.

I can live with that, she thought, but I'll always regret that we didn't find a way to be together earlier.

Sobered, she asked him to adjust the screen to another setting, then listened as he ran the scanner over her one more time.

"And…?" she coaxed.

"The numbers are all showing within normal ranges…" he started – then stopped abruptly. "Beverly, there's a red triangle on one," he said worriedly. "It's showing one hundred eighty-four thousand units… normal is less than five…"

She opened her eyes – the instantly shut them against the glare of the room's light. "Which one, Jean-Luc?" she whispered, although she already knew the sad truth.

"It says 'hCG'," he replied.

Her eyes flew open. "What?"

"It says 'hCG'; it shows your hCG level is one hundred eight-four thousand units. Beverly," he said anxiously, suddenly terrified at the expression of shock that now covered her face, "What is it? What's hCG? What's wrong with you?"

She reached for the scanner and the tricorder, and ran the scanner over herself once more, then squinted at the tricorder's read out before falling back against the pillows at the head of the bed.

"Beverly?"

"It's nothing, Jean-Luc. I mean… nothing's wrong," she added.

Not entirely believing her, he settled himself on the edge of the bed and reached for her hand. "Beverly, please… whatever it is, we'll work it out together. If you're sick, if there's something wrong…"

She smiled at him, tightening her hand around his, then bit her lip. "There's nothing wrong with me, Jean-Luc. That is… unless you think being pregnant is wrong."


	34. Chapter 34

June 8 – part 2

"Pregnant?" Jean-Luc echoed, clearly stunned.

Beverly nodded, equally shocked. "Pregnant."

"Pregnant?"

Startled by the unexpected voice, the two Starfleet officers looked to the landing at the top of the stairs.

"Pat?" Beverly said. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm where I'm supposed to be – helping a friend when she's sick!" the woman replied, climbing the last step and entering the small apartment. "What? Did you think you were the only one who could help out a friend?" she asked as she came to the bed's side, then jabbed an accusatory finger at Picard. "And what about you? You could have called me, you know! Making my customers drink tea," she added.

"No one objected," he defended himself, then added, "and you are supposed to be taking a break from the shop."

"I am – but I could have talked you through using the espresso maker," she countered, then pushing the scanner and the tricorder out of the way, sat down beside Beverly. "Pregnant," she repeated. "Such wonderful news," she said – then noticed the worry in Beverly's expression. "It is wonderful news, isn't it?" she asked worriedly – then looked at Picard. "Isn't it?" she repeated.

Picard looked at Beverly.

Was it? he asked himself. Trapped in this world, hundreds of years from their own time and with the destruction of this place only a few years away, was this what he wanted – to bring a life into these troubled and uncertain times?

And yet…

Here was the fulfillment of a fantasy he had never thought could be: not just his child, but his child by the one woman he had ever truly loved.

It wasn't simply a matter of the continuation of his family name – he had long ago resigned himself to that being Robert's responsibility, and, with the birth of his son René, and obligation that had been fulfilled. And he had never been so vain as to think his genes had sufficient value to be carried on into the next generation.

And yet at some level, he had always wondered, always imagined – always hoped! – that somehow that fantasy might be the one to be made manifest.

But what he fantasized over had nothing to do with the reality of the life into which they had been thrust. The destruction of this world was only a few years away; since he had realized they were trapped here, in this time, he had come to accept that they would have to make an attempt to flee this country, to find someplace safe in order to weather out the years that were to come – but, if in doing, they perished, the loss wouldn't be tragic.

To bring a child into this world, though, knowing the future that awaited them – that awaited him? Did they have a right to do that?

And all of that begged the question he had never had the courage to ask: did Beverly even want another child – let alone a child by him?

He looked at his lover – then looked away.

Stunned by the man's reaction, Pat looked at Beverly. "It is good news, isn't it dearie?" she asked.

Beverly looked away, unable to face Jean-Luc. How could she say yes – that surprising as it was, finding herself pregnant was what she had dreamt of – when they had never even talked about the possibility?

And to bring a child into this world, where medicine was primitive at best – where they had no guarantee of a future, let alone a future that they want for their child – of a strong community, a healthy economy, a chance for a good education and a happy life of his own – how dare she put her own desire, her own fantasies ahead of the real needs of bringing a child into this world?

Pat stared at the two, clearly shocked, then patted Beverly's hand and rose from the bed.

"I'm going to the shop," she said soberly. "I'm going to make you something to eat and get you both some tea," she added.

"I should go with you," Picard muttered.

"You," Pat countered firmly, "should stay right here – and the two of you should do some serious talking." Harrumphing at the two, she left the room, the sound of her footsteps fading as she moved down the staircase.

Alone once again, Picard returned his gaze to Beverly, then took Pat's place on the side of the bed.

"How?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," Beverly replied. "After that first night, I tried to remember when I renewed both of our implants – and I know that we should have both been safe for at least another few months," she said.

Picard reddened. "I did the same thing," he admitted. "Thought about the implants, that is," he added.

To his relief, Beverly smiled. "Really?"

He nodded. "I know you never considered me to be concerned about my health – but I did try to be diligent about some things. Maintaining the implant was one of them," he informed her.

"Worried that you might leave a string of progeny behind?" she teased gently.

"No," he said – then taking her hand in his, brought it to his lips. "To be honest, Beverly, there weren't that many women in my life. Not since I was a young man. Yes, I had a lover here and there, but… they weren't you," he said.

"So why worry so much about the implant?" she asked curiously.

"In case it ever _was_ you," he informed her.

She drew a sharp breath, then pulled his hand to her lips – then reached for the scanner she had covered when Pat had entered the room. Passing it over his exposed arm, she glanced at the readout – then frowned.

The frown intensified a moment later when she repeated the same action over her own arm.

"They're working, Jean-Luc – they're both working," she added. Fumbling beneath the blanket, she pulled out the tricorder and repeated the process with the second machine. "The implants are still functioning," she said once more, "but the drug isn't. Damn it!" she swore angrily. "I should have thought of this! The temporal entropy that drained the shuttlecraft power and affected us – it affected the drugs in the medkit as well. I should have realized that it might have affected the drugs _in_ us as well!" she growled.

"Beverly, you couldn't have foreseen this," he replied gently. "Is there anything else we should be concerned about?"

"Isn't this enough?" she countered.

He managed a patient smile. "What about our vaccinations?" Picard asked. "Are we at risk of picking up anything here?"

"I don't think so – though clearly some things can still affect us. But the vaccinations aren't a medication, really. They trigger a first level immune response when I injected them – once that's happened, the vaccine itself is no longer in your system," she explained. "Actually, aside from the implant, we don't _have_ any drugs in our system that aren't already bound to tissues or cells…"

Picard nodded. "All right. So the implants failed – and here we are," he said, "with a child on the way."

She met his eyes and saw a level of uncertainty and fear there that she had never imagined – and spoke the words she had never once considered saying to him. "There are… options, Jean-Luc. We don't have to have the baby; I can administer an abortifacient; the pregnancy hasn't progressed far enough for an abortion to be dangerous…"

"If that's what you want, Beverly," he replied weakly.

"What I want?" she replied. "What about you, Jean-Luc? What do you want?"

He hesitated, looking into her eyes, and remembered the fear that he had seen there when he had first told her about the aberrant level in her blood. She had clearly suspected something was wrong, he reminded himself: had she suspected she was pregnant – and didn't want to be?

Seeing his reluctance, she reached to his face, caressed it gently, then turned it so his eyes couldn't escape her. "Talk to me, Jean-Luc; don't hide the truth from me. We're alone in this world – and we have to be honest with one another. Brutally honest. So tell me what you're feeling – whatever it is."

"No matter what?"

"No matter what," she agreed.

He nodded. "Then on one condition," he said.

"And that is…?"

"When I told you one of the reading was out of range, you looked... scared. No," he amended, "sad. So terribly sad," he added softly. "What did you think it was?"

"Honestly…" Beverly started, then hesitated a moment before continuing, "I thought I was entering through menopause. I've been thinking that's been happening for the last few weeks. I never considered…" she started – then stopped.

"Beverly?" he pressed.

"No, I met your condition," she said. "It's your turn."

He smiled. "I hadn't thought about menopause," he admitted. "In fact, I haven't been thinking far beyond surviving the here and the now. That's been fairly short-sighted on my part; I know that I have to start planning for where we're going to go in the next few years to avoid what's coming – but I've been focused on just making it through each day – and then each week – and now each month. The future… has been just too far away."

He watched as her hand moved to her abdomen. "It just got a little closer," she said softly.

"How close?" he asked.

"I'll need to do a more comprehensive scan, but the hCG level would suggest between six and ten weeks," she said.

He fell silent for a moment. "He'd be born early next year," he said.

Beverly nodded. "Or she – but yes. If that's what we want to do," she added. "So we have a little time to decide about… what we're going to do," she said.

Picard grew quiet once more – then looked at her once again. "Which is…?"

She smiled, shaking her head. "Uh-unh. You're not getting out of this that easily," she reminded him.

He looked at her again, then gently caressed her belly, a thousand rational and reasoned thoughts racing through his mind. There simply were too many reasons that they shouldn't bring a child into the world – this world.

"Forgive me, Beverly," he whispered, "but…"

She felt her heart slow, her mind stopped – and she braced herself for the only words she couldn't bear to hear.

"… but I want this child. I want _our_ child. I know it's not reasonable or wise – but I want our child," he whispered.

She drew a deep breath as her heart started once again – then reached for his hand, drawing it to her lips.

His eyes followed his hand, and he met her eyes.

"I was sad, Jean-Luc, because the thought of entering menopause meant that I would never have another child. I would never have your child. I would never have _our_ child," she whispered.

He reached for her face, gently caressing it, then kissed it softly – and began to laugh. "A father," he chuckled softly. "I'm going to be a father!"

He wrapped his arms around her, rolling her over on top of him, his laughter growing into a roar. "I'm going to be a father!" he chortled, then stopped as he saw the expression on her face. "Beverly?" he asked worriedly.

"I don't meant to interrupt – but I'm going to throw up," she informed him.

Hurriedly, he leapt from the bed and lifted her into his arms.

_And so it begins,_ he thought as he entered the small bathroom.

Pat frowned as she carried the tray up the two flights of stairs that led to the do jahng, worried for her friends.

Such a lovely couple, she thought – but to start a family at their age – and without having their friends and family nearby?

Except, of course, they had both, she protested. They might not know it – but they had friends aplenty – and if they didn't consider her and Gy to be family, well, they were in for a rude awakening. She informed them silently.

But they were older, she reminded herself; beyond the obvious issues of the age difference, there was also the risk to Beverly – and to the baby!

If they went ahead with it, she added.

Then again, a child from those two? He – or she – would be smart as a whip, Pat told herself – and handsome as the devil, or as stunning as her mother.

Better be a boy, she decided: if they had a girl, the poor thing would never have a date! One look at John, and any would-be suitors would be running for the door, least the incur the wrath of her father. Which meant she'd be sneaking out at night, running around with God-knew-who… No, a boy, she decided.

Definitely a boy. Strong and handsome as his father – and Lordy, if he had his dad's voice as well as his looks, the girls would be all over him.

But the idea of John holding his little girl's hand as he walked her to her first day of school made her heart melt.

No: definitely a girl.

Soft voices carried into the do jahng as Pat entered the school; carrying the tray of soup and bread, she called out to the two, not wanting to inadvertently overhear what was probably a very difficult discussion.

"Sandra's over at the shop; she called in to O'Briens and said she couldn't make it – and Teague ditched his afternoon class to help out. You know, Beverly, I was thinking that maybe Sandra could come on full time – the hours are better than at O'Brien's, and you'll be needing the help…" Pat started – then fell silent, realizing that maybe that help wouldn't be needed after all.

Stricken over the decision that confronted her friends, she climbed the narrow staircase leading to the apartment, then glanced over the railing into the room.

Beverly, pale and worn, lay back against a mound of pillows – smiling.

"Yvette? After my mother?" John murmured as he lay on the bed beside her, one hand caressing her belly.

"What if it's a boy?" Beverly countered. "Maybe… Jack?"

Picard smiled. "Jack. Yes. I think he'd like that," he answered.

Pat grinned and let loose a relieved sigh. _Wonderful news,_ she thought; _wonderful news, indeed._


	35. Chapter 35

June 16

Pat fumbled nervously with her purse, opening it to check that a bundle of tissues were safely enclosed, then closing it – then opening and checking the contents once more.

The nervousness was as out of place with the woman as was her clothing, Beverly thought: an ill-fitting dark blue dress, dark hose and dark blue shoes – all completely appropriate for this setting, she thought, but so out of place on a woman whose usual style ran to the joyous rather than the severe.

Closing it with a decisive snap, she looked up at her two companions. "I know, I know. I look like hell in this get-up," she told them. "Damned thing doesn't fit anymore – but I wasn't about to buy something new just to go to Lilly's funeral. I don't want to spend money on something like that."

"It's not that," Beverly replied quickly. "It's just that I've never seen you in a dress."

"Ugh – dresses! I didn't want to wear a dress when I was so damned fat! I looked like a tent," she admitted, "and I'm not going to buy anything new while I'm still losing weight." She turned her attention from Beverly to Jean-Luc. "You've got the address?"

Picard nodded patiently, as though Pat hadn't asked the same questions a half dozen times in the last ten minutes.

"And Sandra's loading the order into the car," Beverly added before Pat could ask that question again. "We'll have everything there and set up before you get back from the cemetery," she confirmed.

"Thank you both so much, dears," Pat sighed. "As much as I want to be here for Margaret, I hate funerals – and one like this is all the harder. Such a young woman – and to leave behind a husband and two girls… it's just so tragic," she managed – then opened her purse to check it once more – then gave a sigh. "It was so much easier when I was at the shop; I never went to these things. I could claim I had to work, or, if we had to cater an order for coffee and rolls for a funeral, I could stop in extend my condolences, then scurry back to the basement to arrange the food. Rather cowardly of me, wasn't it?" she said.

"Not cowardly, Pat. Facing pain and fear are the two hardest tasks we face," Picard offered.

"You're being too kind, John," she replied. "And you two are being dears to handle this for me. And I had better get in there," she continued, "before all the pews are filled. It's good to see so many people turned out for this; George and the girls are going to need all their help for the next few weeks. Oh!" she added as a thought came to her.

"Yes, the casseroles are packed as well," she answered before Pat could ask the question. "We'll deliver them to the house."

"Thank you. George's mother will meet you there. Lovely lady. Came out all the way from Washington when Lilly was brought home, just to help out. I think her being there was one reason Lilly held on for so long; she handled everything in the house so that George and the girls could spend all their time with Lilly. She'll be staying on a few more weeks, I gather, until things have calmed down a bit."

"Mrs. Edrickson?"

A deep baritone that rivaled the richness of Jean-Luc's voice rippled through the quiet morning air.

"Oh, Reverend Morrison!" she exclaimed.

Beverly and Jean-Luc turned to face the intruder on the conversation, and found themselves confronting a man whose appearance bore no similarity to his voice. Of average height, his frame bore the evidence of a few too many good meals and a few too few days at the gym, while his ruddy face displayed a practiced expression of just enough compassion blended with a heavy dose of severity.

"Good morning, Pat," he said firmly, extending his hand to her. "Everyone's been seated; we're just waiting on George and the girls to get settled in the forward room. I'd like to get started shortly, so if you wouldn't mind…?"

"Of course, Reverend," she said. "By the way, I'd like you to meet my friends. This is Beverly Crusher and John Picard. Beverly has taken over the coffee shop for me, and John is running Gy's school."

The man's expression hardened slightly. "Ah, yes. Martial arts," he said as he held out his hand to Picard. "I've heard about the school."

The two shook hands briefly, then separated as the pastor settled back on his heels. "I must admit, Mr. Picard, I don't hold with teaching children martial arts. It's not right for them to learn such things at such a young age."

"Which things?" Beverly interjected sweetly. "Loyalty? Honor? Integrity? Self-control? Respect? Discipline?"

"Those are lovely concepts, Ms. Crusher," he said, "but you must admit that martial arts is primarily about teaching how to fight. In this day and age, that's hardly appropriate, don't you think?" he murmured.

"You may have the wrong idea about martial arts, Reverend Morrison," Picard interrupted. "Dr. Crusher is quite correct," he continued, the inflection on Beverly's title gentle – but as unmistakable as the pride in his voice. "The skills we teach are about development of the self as a strong and contributing member of the community. Peripherally, we teach physical skills that help reinforce that learning, but with the clear and certain understanding that one uses those skills only to defend one's self, family and community – never to attack or to be the aggressor. Perhaps you would like to stop by the school one day and visit us?" he added.

"Perhaps," the man agreed, though his tone suggested that there was little chance of that happening. "And perhaps one day you'll stop by the church and attend a service?" he countered.

"Perhaps," Picard demurred.

Pat tried to hide the grin that threatened, covering her mouth and feigning a weak cough. "And perhaps, she said a moment later, "we can continue this conversation another day, Reverend? I think George and the girls have waited long enough."

The man nodded solemnly, then turned and reentered the church as Pat turned to her friends. "Ignore him. He can be a complete ass when he's in his 'Reverend Morrison' mood - but give him a couple of beers and you'd never know there was a stick up his butt." She checked her purse one last time, then gave Beverly a kiss on the cheek, then did the same to Jean-Luc. "Thank you both," she murmured, then straightened, entered the church and pulled the open door closed behind her.

Picard watched as the heavy doors swing shut, then turned to his lover. "Thank you," he said.

"For?"

"Standing up for the school, for me – for what I believe in," he explained.

"It's what _we_ believe in," she reminded him, "and I wanted the good reverend to know that I've 'got your back'."

He gave her a perplexed look.

"The current term for 'I support you'," she clarified.

"Ah," he murmured.

"And speaking of support, we should be heading back," she reminded him.

"Beverly, it's a five minute walk – if we walk slowly," he reminded her. "We don't have to be at the house for another hour – and Teague is there to give Sandra a hand. We have plenty of time."

She gave him a frank look. "Oh? Did you have something in mind?"

Despite the sober atmosphere, he smiled. "Yes – but not what you're thinking. Not that I don't appreciate the increase in your libido," he added.

"One of the joys of pregnancy for the Howard women," she replied, reaching for his hand, "not that we lack for it when we're not pregnant," she added.

"While I do appreciate both, I'm just happy that it's been one of the only side effects," he replied. "One hears horror stories of morning sickness and swollen ankles…"

"Well, if a quick romp in our bed wasn't what you had in mind, then…?" she asked.

He glanced around, then gestured to one of the granite walls that framed the opening of the church. "Shall we?" he asked.

The stone was cool to the touch, still slightly damp from previous day's rain, and refreshing against the rapidly building heat of the summer sun. Sitting on the smooth surface, Beverly gave a sigh as Jean-Luc took a place beside her.

"Are you all right?" he asked worriedly.

"Yes… no. I was just thinking…" She leaned against him in silent request for his arm to be wrapped around her – and in equally silent response, he moved to gently embrace her – then kissed the top of her head.

She gave a plaintive sigh – then looked at him. "I could have saved that woman's life, Jean-Luc," she said quietly.

He echoed her sigh, understanding all too well what was going through her thoughts. "No, you couldn't, Beverly," he replied gently. "I'm sorry that the young woman died – but there was nothing you could do."

"There was…" she protested softly.

"There wasn't," he said firmly. "Beverly, even if we could justify allocating replicator power for that one woman, how could you explain what you were doing? I'm not going to cite the Prime Directive – but the practicality of the regulation applies: this civilization cannot be made privy to the knowledge and technology we have – except in such a way that they don't realize it's from an outside source. If anyone was to know who we are or what technology we have, our lives would be at risk – and so would our child's," he reminded her.

"I know!" she protested angrily – then softened. "But I don't have to like it. I know what it's like to have the person you love – the person you wanted to spend your entire life with – taken away from you with no warning; to sit there, by yourself, in the dark and the cold and wonder how you were going to survive without him, how you were going to make it to the next day, how you were even going to wake up the next morning. Too many times I almost didn't; I almost let the pain and the grief take me away… "

He stared in her in shocked silence, then managed, "Beverly, I never meant for Jack to be killed…"

Equally stunned, she looked at him. "I wasn't talking about Jack, Jean-Luc. I was talking about you. Losing Jack was different. It hurt – more than I thought I could bear at the time – but I had school and Wesley – and giving up wasn't an option. But every time you went on a mission, and we thought you were lost, where you weren't coming back, then times when you wound up in my Sickbay, wounded, abused… when I thought I would never have the chance to tell you how I felt… and then you were back or recovering – and I was so scared that I might lose you again that I didn't dare tell you…"

"Is that why you said you were afraid?" he asked.

She understood immediately – but shook her head. "No. I wasn't the one who was afraid, Jean-Luc. You were."

She saw his stunned expression. "You thought _I_ was afraid?" he echoed.

"I didn't think it, Jean-Luc; I _knew_ it. We both knew it," she added gently. "All of that time that we were joined on Kes-Prytt, we could see inside each other; we both saw things that we wanted – but I think we both saw things that we didn't want to see.

"I could see that you cared for me – deeply – that you had for a long time. I think you realized that I cared for you as well. But we could also see the things that would tear us apart.

"You've never had a successful relationship, Jean-Luc; every time you've become close to someone, close enough to think about something more, you've stopped yourself, broken off the relationship and moved on.

"I had a good marriage with Jack – but after he died, I've prevented myself from becoming that emotionally involved with anyone. Any time I've started to get close to anyone, I managed to sabotage it; they ended almost as quickly as yours did. As much as you cared for me, I knew you were afraid that we would end the same way – with one of us forcing an end to it - and I thank you for not letting that happen," she said softly.

"For not letting it happen…?" he repeated. "Beverly, you were the one who walked away that night," he reminded her.

"But you didn't come after me," she pointed out. "Jean-Luc, if you had had no doubts – about yourself or about me - you would have come after me." She gave a soft laugh of pained derision. "I even waited by your door for a few moments, wondering – hoping! – that you would, because a part of me wanted exactly that to happen. The smarter part of me knew that it shouldn't – and when the door didn't open, I knew that it wasn't time for us. Not then.

"And perhaps never," she added softly. "For all the games we played with one another, we always kept our distance. If we hadn't ended up here, who knows…"

He rose, pulling her into his arms, and placing a gentle kiss on her lips. "But we did end up here," he said, "and for all that we have lost, I cannot truly say I'm unhappy." He glanced downward, looking to where there was only a faint trace of a curve at her belly – and smiled. "Indeed, not unhappy at all," he assured her.

He pulled her close once more, kissing her again, then wrapped her in his arms. "But as for this world… don't like it, Beverly. Hate the things you see as being wrong. Hate the iniquities and injustices – keep working and fighting and hating what this society has and doesn't have – and keep trying to make it a better place," he told her. "It's what you've always done best – tried to make this world – every world you've been in – a better place. It's one reason I love you – and have always loved you," he added. "It's one reason that I have always admired you – because you've always fought for what you thought was right."

"As have you," she reminded him.

To her surprise, though, he shook his head. "No. Pat was right: sometimes we take the path of least resistance – the path of a coward. I know I did. Too often I did what Starfleet Command and the Federation said I should do – but not always what I personally believed was right. There were times it was easier to follow the regulations than to take the harder stand and follow my own conscience," he admitted. "I'm not proud of those times."

"And yet you did follow your conscience, Jean-Luc- and more than a few times," she reminded him. "You risked your career to do what you thought was right."

"Not often enough," he answered. "Not again," he added. "Never again."

"Or perhaps simply 'never',' she answered. "Perhaps the Jean-Luc Picard who comes from this timeline will never have to make those choices. Perhaps the Federation he knows will have a different conscience, a different attitude toward the people who live within that alliance," she reminded him.

"Or perhaps he will be a braver and stronger man than I was," Picard countered.

She looked at him soberly. "Jean-Luc, don't discredit yourself. Please," she added softly. "I can't imagine a better role model for our son – or our daughter – than you."

He looked at her, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice – then leaned forward, kissing her softly. "I do love you, Beverly," he whispered.

She studied him in return then raised a hand to his cheek, caressing it softly, savoring the warmth of his presence.

As he held her, he let his eyes roam over the front of the building until they caught on a date carved into the boulders that made up its façade. "Eighteen eighty-eight," he murmured.

"Hmmm?" she breathed against his chest.

"The building. It's dated eighteen eight-eight," he explained.

She pulled back, following his gaze to the date – then sighed. "That sounds so old, but it's just over a hundred years old to these people."

"It's old to them, too, Beverly. A hundred years – a hundred years in which this world has gone from horse drawn carts to pocket-sized computers that rival some of the technology of our time," he reminded her. "It's been a time of remarkable change…"

"And yet some things haven't changed," she interrupted. "Many of these buildings – our building," she reminded him with a smile, "this church… A hundred years, Jean-Luc. Think of what this building has seen: births, deaths, weddings, funerals…" she murmured, then glanced at Picard. "You attended church when you were growing up, didn't you?" she asked.

"I did – though not of my own volition. I was never a religious person – at least, not in terms of a formal church affiliation. It was Father who insisted that we attend every week," he answered.

"Your father?" Beverly said, surprised. "Not your mother?"

"No. Don't get me wrong, Beverly; Maman was a deeply spiritual person – and what I believe in has much to do with how she taught us to revere life - but it was Father who insisted we attend church every Sunday. He believed in the appearance of the practice as well as the meaning behind it."

"From what you've said, I never thought of your father as being concerned about appearances," she replied.

"He wasn't – but attending church wasn't simply a matter of attending; it was a way of affirming your connection to the entire town. We would attend, and afterward Father and the other men would discuss the plantings, or sports, or politics – while Maman would do something similar with the other women of the town. Robert and I were left to play with the other children – but given that we all had our Sunday finery on – and the other families were as traditional as ours…"

"Meaning no replicators," Beverly smiled.

"…meaning no replicators," he agreed with a smile, "so getting dirty was frowned upon – and tearing out the knees or elbows of our clothes was not something any of us wanted to endure. So our playing was rather sedate," he confessed. "What about you? Did you parents take you to church?" he asked – then immediately rose to join her. "Oh, Beverly, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you…"

She lay her hand on his shoulder and shook her head. "Don't apologize, Jean-Luc; I've been thinking of them a lot lately – of all that they missed in my life – but to be honest, I remember so little of them that I don't know where reality ends and my imagination begins. But I don't remember going to church with them. Certainly not on Arvada; maybe when I was an infant, before we moved, but once we got to the colony, all of their time was spent trying to get the colony up and running. Then the disaster hit and Nana and the other survivors were focused on staying alive. It wasn't until we were rescued and moved to Caldos that I remember seeing a church – but Nana rarely went.

"But it's something we should consider," she added. "I mean, if it's important to you, to have Junior here," she glanced at her belly, "have some sort of religious upbringing. It would be nice to maintain some of your family's traditions – or maybe, given when we are, create them. There's a certain irony in that, you know – maybe you were the one who created all the traditions you've always held so dear," she said with a smile.

He raised a brow in bemusement. "I've never considered that," he admitted. "But you're right: we should think about those things. We have some time, though, don't we? Didn't you say January 15?" he asked.

"That's what I calculated based on my last scan – though Wesley was in no hurry to arrive," she added. "He was a week late – I was in the middle of xeno-microbiology practicals when I went into labor! Fortunately my water didn't break until after I got to the clinic. Professor Lang would not have been amused if that had happened during the final – though Professor Dean probably would have given me extra credit for a live demonstration if I'd had him then and there," she laughed.

Picard chuckled in return. "I do hope you're not planning anything like that for Junior's arrival," he said.

"While I have infinite faith in your abilities," Beverly said, "I think we'd both be happier if I do this at the hospital. Though I'm not terribly happy about the idea of putting myself in the hands of one of these physicians," she added. "From what Ralph has said, they have no qualms about rushing every slow labor into surgery and doing Caesarian sections at will. I want to find someone who knows how to manage labor with patience rather than panic," she said firmly. "Fortunately, as you said, we have time."

"Time for other things as well," he said quietly, turning to look at her.

"That sounds ominous, Jean-Luc," she replied.

"Not ominous. Significant," he replied.

"Oh?"

He met her gaze, then looked down and took her hand.

"Marry me, Beverly."


	36. Chapter 36

July 4

"Don't let Ma tell you differently," Gy informed Jean-Luc as the two stood on the back patio of Pat's house, a weather-worn kettle grill open and an aluminum chimney standing on the exposed grill. "It's not the Fourth of July without barbecue – and it ain't barbecue if a man doesn't cook it. Women don't do it right. Oh, they're fine with everything in the kitchen - but out here? This is man work," he announced. "Always has been, since the days when we all lived in caves. Barbecuing is primal; it's in our genes.

"Now the secret to a good barbecue is real hardwood charcoal," he continued as emptied a bag of black lumps into the metal chimney. "Never use those processed preformed chunks," he instructed Picard as he set the bag down, then reached into the chimney and rearranged the coals into a symmetric pyramid. "And none of that charcoal lighter stuff, either. You want to cook food in gasoline? Not on my barbecue," he continued. "Just use one of these starter chimneys, a wadded piece of paper, and..."

He stopped, realized something was missing, and began to pat down his pockets. "Where the hell did I put them?" he muttered.

The screen door swung open and Sandra strode out onto the patio, slapped the box of matches onto the picnic table and chuckled. "You left these on the kitchen table, Og," Sandra said, then grinned at Picard. "Yes, it's a man's job - providing the women remembered to get the grill, the charcoal, the meat and the newspaper - and the matches."

Gy pulled a match from the box, struck it, placed it against the crumpled newspaper, watched it catch fire - then gave a shriek of fear and leaped toward Sandra. "Fire! Og scared!" he announced in his best caveman fashion.

Rolling her eyes, she patted his arm tolerantly. "Relax, Og. Fire good."

"Fire good?" Gy repeated.

"Yes, Og; fire good. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go butcher the mastodon," she chuckled, then re-entered the house.

Gy thrust out his chest and pounded it. "Og cook!" he said - then gave a cough as a plume of smoke from the fire enveloped him.

Picard smiled at the interplay between the two, then moved closer to the young man. "I thought Corrine would be here today," he said quietly. "I saw the car out front."

"We were supposed to go out last night," Gy replied, sobering. "I had Fred drop me off – but then Cor didn't answer the door – and when I called her, she didn't answer the phone. Maybe she decided to go visit relatives or something; maybe she's just hiding. I know she's pissed at me because I found out about her losing her job - though why she's mad at me about it, I don't know."

"And the car?" Picard asked.

"Obviously she wasn't using it – and I wasn't about to walk back from her house, so I took it. Don't worry – I left her a message that I had it," he added with a grin – then shook his head. "Then again, I wouldn't put it past her to call the cops and report it stolen. Fortunately, I have the title – but it would be a pain. Not that she isn't above making life hell for me 'cause she's mad. Women," he added plaintively.

Picard raised his brow in tacit agreement - though, he had to admit, his relationship with Beverly seemed to have few, if any, of the hallmarks of a more traditional relationship.

Not that they didn't disagree about things: they did - and sometimes the disagreements were animated and vociferous. But they were never personal, Picard reminded himself - and they were always made from a position of mutual respect - respect that existed even when they didn't always understand the other person's reasons.

He blew out a sigh, still perplexed over the outcome of their latest 'discussion'.

It had been, to him, a simple enough proposition: they should get married. After all, they loved each other – and Beverly was going to have their child.

So when he had proposed to her at the church, he had thought there would be only one answer.

And there had been – but it wasn't the one he had expected.

Beverly had said, "No."

He shook his head, still stunned.

"I love you Jean-Luc," she had said – first there, and then again, that afternoon, and the next and every day since. "I just don't see the need for a piece of paper. I love you, I will always love you, and I intend to spend as much of my life with you as you will permit," she had said. "Getting married will change none of that."

He had tried every persuasion, every argument he could think of to change her mind – but still the answer remained the same.

No.

_Women_, he thought, give a disconsolate and frustrated sigh.

Gy looked up at the sound, concerned. "Everything okay in John and Beverly land?" he asked.

"What? Oh, yes," Picard replied quickly. "Just agreeing with your summation: 'women'."

Gy grinned. "Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

"Something like that," Picard agreed.

"So, you do any grilling in your days in the Navy - or is that frowned upon on those big boats?" Gy asked.

"We weren't in the Navy, Gy," Picard replied, "but no, we didn't do any grilling when we were shipboard. However, my father used to cook outside once in a while. In the fall," he added, "after the last of the grapes had been harvested. We'd trim back the vines, and after they had dried out, he'd use them as fuel for cooking game or fish," he reminisced, then hastily added, "but not very often. Cooking was my mother's forte, not my father's," he explained.

"Vines?"

Picard raised a brow, instantly wary that he had said too much. After all, he thought sternly, my personal life was my own and...

And what? he interrupted himself abruptly.

And some Starfleet psychologist is going to judge my ability command as having been negatively affected by having a dispassionate father and a doting mother? he asked himself. Some ensign is going to pity me because I came from a dysfunctional family?

As if they even cared, he realized – then allowed himself a hearty chuckle as realization slowly dawned on him.

My God, what an ego I have! Robert was right: I am an arrogant ass!

And what a fool.

Still chuckling, he faced a very surprised Gy. "My father was a vintner," he informed him calmly.

"No shit!" Gy replied, surprised. "Bet that was fun when you were growing up - you know, having wine and all that," he added.

"When it's readily available, it loses some of the allure," Picard replied drily, "and growing up with good wine can spoil ones appreciation of lesser vintages," he added.

"Oo-wee," Gy whistled, " 'Lesser vintages'. You're a real oeonophile, I gather," he said, then grinned. "Didn't think I knew a big word like that, did ja? Well, not to disappoint, but tonight's selection is a delightful one, insouciant without being pretentious, with hints of caramel and citrus - and a decent head. Hey, Sandra, can you bring us a couple of Sam Adams?" he shouted through the open back door.

"Get them yourself, Gy," Pat shouted back. "Sandra's not here to wait on you!"

"No," Gy replied under his breath, "she's here to wait on you!" He let out a long breath, then met Picard's gaze. "Sorry, but Ma's got her running ragged today."

Picard nodded his understanding. "I thought Pat was doing well," he said. "She looked quite well when we saw her at the funeral…"

"She's looking fucking great!" Gy exclaimed, "and doing even better. She's lost like twenty pounds, Ralph's got her running with him every day, she's taken up tennis... her doctor is happy, she's happy, Ralph's happy..."

"So why is Sandra helping her so much?" Picard interrupted.

"It's the whole renovation thing. I thought that when she realized she didn't have to redo the house just to get around, she'd give up on the idea – but noooooo," he sighed. "When she hired Sandra away from O'Brien's it was to help Beverly at the shop – but now she's got Sandra helping with fabric samples and paint chips... I just try to stay out of her way. Maybe permanently," he added quietly.

"Gy," Picard replied in surprise. "Is something wrong?"

"No - but... Things with Cor aren't working out - no surprise there – you must have seen that from the first day you met her," he said. "But I started to realize that it's not going to work with any girl - if I have to take her back to my mother's house! I mean... I live with my mother, for crying out loud," he said. "The only things missing are the Star Wars and Green Lantern posters on my bedroom walls!"

Picard raised a brow, completely bewildered by the words. "Umm, uh…."

Oblivious to Picard's confusion, Gy sighed - then confessed, "I'm thinking about moving out, looking for a place of my own."

Picard stiffened, then drew a long steadying breath. "Gy, if you'd like us to move out of the school..."

"What?" Gy interrupted, then instantly understood. "Oh, fuck no, John. That's not what I meant. You and Bev are all settled in up there - and to be honest, taking a girl back to your do-jahng is only slightly less geeky than taking her to your mom's. No, I'm looking for a place - a house - of my own. The market's flooded with houses that are available - and between what you're doing at the school and the two new contracts we got, I'm going to be able to afford to get something decent. Not great - but I'm a good carpenter, and I can fix it up the way I want. Hey! Come see what I've been working on!" he added with sudden enthusiasm.

He led Picard to a large storage shed at the back of the property; unlocking it, he opened the large doors, revealing a small workshop, filled with the scent of sawdust and wood stain. At the center of the room stood a large object, covered with a stained dropcloth. Taking one side of the cloth, Gy pulled it back, revealing a large wood dresser.

"What do you think?" he asked.

Picard drew in his breath as he stared at the dresser that filled the middle of the space. Though still unfinished there was no mistaking the exquisite craftsmanship in the piece, from the careful matching of the wood patterns in the panels, to the intricate carving on the legs and drawer panels.

"Beautiful work, Gy," Picard said softly, touching the elaborate carvings that adorned the front of the long drawers.

"Hand carved," Gy said proudly. "Been working on the drawers all spring. I've always like to do cabinetry and inlaid work - but there's no money in doing it for others. They can't pay you for the time and materials. You know what they say: Do what you love and you'll never work a day in your life. Well, that's a load of crap. I love woodworking - but it doesn't pay the bills. So I go to work every day - and I do this for myself.

"I have to admit, though, that I wasn't real sure about the flowers and all - thought it might be a little too feminine - but I really like how the leaves curl around. It'll look better when it's stained and polished, of course... But it looks good, doesn't it?" he said.

"Beautiful," Picard agreed. "It reminds me of some of the pieces we had at home," he added, running a finger over one of the more intricate sprays. "They were handed down from generation to generation…"

"That's how it should be," Gy said. "When a piece is well made, it should last for several lifetimes. I have to admit it's not an original design – I lifted some of the drawings from a piece I saw in a book of classic pieces – but I've added a few touches of my own.

"Once I'm done with this one, I'm going to make a matching tallboy - and eventually a four poster bed to go with it. I want to do a dining room table too, but that means making chairs and that's going to take time. That or I'll have very small dinner parties," he added with a smile. "I don't suppose woodworking is another one of those hidden talents of yours," he added hopefully.

"Sadly, no," Picard confessed. "But then, I wouldn't have put martial arts or running a business on my resumé before I met you, so I suppose anything is possible," he continued.

"Ah, martial arts you can learn - but woodworking?" Gy sighed. "You'd know. You know when something's your passion."

Picard nodded - then risked a glance out the open doors and into the brilliant blue of the sky.

I do love you, Beverly, he thought to himself, but…

I miss being out there. I miss the stars. I miss space, he thought to himself.

"John?"

Startled by Gy's voice, Picard stirred himself back to the present. "My apologies," he murmured.

"Hey, no prob," he said – then let his voice drop. "I think I understand now. You were a pilot, weren't you?" he asked knowingly.

Picard's brow rose – then he smiled and shook his head. "No. Not really," he demurred.

Looking puzzled, Gy watched as Picard glanced up at the sky once more – then felt a wave of cold understanding wash over him.

"Holy shit," he whispered. "You're one of them, aren't you? You and Beverly both!"

"One of whom?" Picard echoed.

"An astronaut," Gy managed. "You guys are astronauts!"

"Hardly," Picard scoffed.

"No, not one of the NASA astronauts," Gy said. "One of the _other_ astronauts. The military ones."

"Military astronauts?" Picard replied.

"Come on, John; you don't have to play coy with me," Gy said knowingly. "Everyone knows NASA used to be the playground for the military – but when everything went public, the military didn't just quit the space race – they went their own way. No one knows about it officially – but unofficially, everyone knows they're up there, getting ready for the first mission to Mars or colonizing the moon, or whatever the fuck they're planning. And you and Bev – you've been up there, haven't you?

"I mean, fuck, here I am thinking you're black ops or something like that – I couldn't quite figure it out - but when I saw you look up there, it all came together! Holy shit, John, you've been out there!" he said.

"Gy," Picard said patiently.

"Yeah, yeah, I know you can't say anything," Gy said, waving off any denials, "but… man," he sighed – then added, "Don't worry – I won't say anything. No one would believe me anyway," he added. "Fucking awesome. I mean… it is, isn't it? Awesome?"

Picard studied the young man for a moment – then glanced back at the sky. "Yes," he said softly. "It is."

But there were other things that were just as awesome, just as marvelous – and so much closer.

As the last rays of sun faded behind the house, Beverly eased herself against Jean-Luc's shoulder as the two reclined on the chaise lounge on the patio, silently encouraging him to wrap his arm around her – a request he quickly obeyed.

"Cold?"

"No. I just like having your arm around me," she said.

"Good. I like having it around you as well," he agreed, then kissed the top of her head. "Are you sure Pat doesn't want help with dessert?"

"No," Beverly replied. "She said she missed getting to cook for a crowd now that she's not at the shop every day. Though she was talking about coming back every now and then – keeping her hand in."

"Oh?"

Beverly smiled back at him. "She's planning to come back in the new year so that I can have some time to recuperate after having Junior. This is a different world, Jean-Luc; childbirth is a relatively safe event – but there's no way to speed recovery here. Realistically, I can be back to work in a few weeks – but Pat is talking about my taking two months. And having gone back to school less than two weeks after having Wesley – and missing him every second I was gone – I'm seriously thinking of taking her up on the offer."

Picard nodded, imagining what it would be like to have a child in their lives and in their home: every habit and routine they had established would be disrupted; the sanity of their lives would erupt into chaos and confusion – and love.

He smiled to himself – then kissed the top of Beverly head.

"It's a lovely idea, Beverly – but can we afford it?" he asked her solemnly.

Beverly blew out a long sigh. "We survived on what I brought in from the shop for a month, Jean-Luc. You bring in that much from the school – but we're going to have medical bills for delivering the baby – unless, of course, you'd rather do that at home," she added, glancing back at him again.

Picard blanched, not entirely sure if Beverly was joking or not.

Glancing at her in the growing darkness, he realized she was equally unsure.

"I…" he hesitated. "Is that something we should consider?" he asked uncertainly.

"To be honest, Jean-Luc, I don't know," she admitted. "Back home, it would be simple enough – giving birth on the Enterprise, whether in Sickbay or our quarters, a few days to recover – concepts like recuperation, money to pay for hospitals and doctors never occurred to me. Having Junior at home would be the easiest way to go about it – but that leaves problems like a birth certificate… I always thought that life in our ancestors' time was easier, not more difficult!" she sighed. "Money!" she sighed.

He nodded, understanding her concerns, and suspecting that there was even more involved in having a child – beyond the difficulties he had already envisioned – in this time.

But they would work it out, he added softly.

He kissed the top of her head, and she sighed in contentment, leaning back against him once again.

Beverly had just gotten comfortable in her lover's arms when she heard the sound of the back door opening. Knowing Jean-Luc's dislikes of open displays of affection, she started to rise from the chair to allow some distance between them, but he tightened his arms, pulling her against his chest.

"Jean-Luc," she said softly, "Pat's coming."

"Mm-hmm," he agreed.

"I should get up," she explained.

"All right," he sighed, releasing her from his arms. She rose from the chaise, followed by Picard a moment later – and was stunned as he reached for her hand.

"What are you doing?" she whispered, astounded.

"Holding your hand."

"But Pat…"

He faced her, smiling. "Beverly, Pat knows you're pregnant. I think she's aware that we do far more than just hold hands," he murmured.

She gaped at him, then turned her attention to Pat, who was setting bowls and spoons on the small table. "Can I help you with that, Pat?" she asked.

The woman looked at the two then chuckled. "No. Sandra's cutting up the pie and the ice cream is softening on the counter – and I think you have your hands full," she laughed. "But if you two can tear your hands off each other, you could go let Gy and Ralph know that dessert is on the way. They're up in my room, pulling the screens out of the window."

Picard's brow creased at the remark. "Pulling the screens out? May I ask why?"

"Oh, that's right!" Pat exclaimed. "I've gotten so used to having you two here that I forgot this is your first Fourth here! We pull out the screens because of the fireworks," she added.

Beverly looked at Picard then back at Pat. "The fireworks?"

"Uh-huh. They shoot them off over by the high school," she explained, "but it's always so damned crowded that you can't park there, and even when you can, if you don't get there early in the day, it's hard to find a good place to sit – and sitting in the hot sun all day long is not how I want to spend my Fourth. No, a good barbecue at home is how I like to spend my day – there's some leftovers in the kitchen if you're still hungry," she added hastily. "And then, after it gets dark, we'll go sit on the roof and watch the fireworks form here! This house has a perfect vantage – from upstairs you can see right over the river valley toward the school. Can't see the school of course, but the view of the fireworks is perfect. Now go get those two men and let's have some apple pie."

Obediently, Beverly started to move toward the door, releasing Picard's hand as she did so – but he quickly caught it, then followed her into the house, ignoring the perplexed look on her face.

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped, and turned to face him – and was quickly enveloped in his arms.

"All right. Who are you, and what have you done with Jean-Luc Picard?" she asked, half in jest - and half quite soberly.

He released her from his grasp, then leaned back against the banister as he studied the woman before him. "Ah, Jean-Luc Picard. Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise, was a lonely old man who was obsessed by his image, his career, and how others thought of him. History will record that he was lost in a tragic shuttle accident. Of greater tragedy was the fact that the only woman he loved, his friend and CMO, Beverly Crusher, was lost with him.

"His friends mourned their loss: they grieved for them both – but mourned all the more for the fact that their friends had died just as they were beginning to realize the depths of their feelings, but never availed themselves of the opportunity to act upon them. They grieved for them, for all that was lost – and for all that never was."

He reached for her hand and took it in his. "That Jean-Luc was lost, Beverly; perhaps this one can be, if not a better man, at least a wiser one." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. "This Jean-Luc," he said softly, "loves you – and he doesn't care who knows it."

Ten minutes later, the six were gathered around the table once more, devouring slices of the warm pie, the cold vanilla ice cream slowly melting over the crisp crust and tender apple slices.

"Delicious, Pat," Ralph murmured. "You are a master in the kitchen, my dear."

"Thank you, dear," she replied.

The doctor reached for his beer bottle, and raised it in salute. "To Pat, baker extrordinaire!" he toasted.

The others reached for their drinks, touched them together and echoed the sentiment, then took a celebratory swallow of their beverages.

"Well, since we're toasting, let me make one of my own: to old friends," she said, looking at Ralph, "to dear friends," she added, turning to Jean-Luc and Beverly, "and to new friends," she concluded, turning to Sandra. "May our days together be long and happy."

Another round of glass touching followed.

Sensing that a few words were appropriate, Jean-Luc spoke. "To Pat and Gy, our saviors, our benefactors – and our friends. Thank you," he said.

"Any time!" Gy chuckled, clinking his beer bottle against Sandra's enthusiastically. "Best decision I ever made was to leave that damned party early!"

Sandra looked at him, perplexed – and Gy grinned. "I'll tell you the whole story some day. Your turn, Sandra," he added.

Taken aback, she hesitated, then managed, "I'm not good at this – but it's been a crappy year – two crappy years," she amended, "and then Cave Johnson here walks into my bar, gets stupid drunk and everything changes. So… to Portal Two," she toasted.

Beverly gave Picard a questioning look, but raised her lemonade glass with everyone else. "Portal Two?" she mouthed.

"I'll explain later," he replied.

As she set down her glass, Beverly realized that the others had turned to look at her. "Oh, my turn," she said. "Let me see…" she glanced at Picard, then raised her glass. "To July 13," she said quietly.

Gy interrupted. "July 13? What the hell is July 13?"

Beverly smiled. "It's John's birthday - but more importantly, it's the day John and I are getting married."

Picard's jaw dropped – then he rose to his feet, pulled Beverly to him and kissed her soundly as Pat gave a whoop of joy. "It's about damned time!" she cheered.

"Congratulations!" Ralph offered.

"That's wonderful!" Sandra interjected

"Married?" Gy managed, trying not to choke on the mouthful of beer. "Married?"

"Married," Picard said breaking away, a wide grin splitting his face. "Married."

"But…" Gy spluttered.

Pat lay a calming hand on her son's arm. "Married, Gy."

Beverly smiled at her soon-to-be husband – then looked at Gy. "Married," she confirmed, then placed a protective hand on her belly. "You don't want your assistant instructor going around fathering children out of wedlock, do you?" she teased. "How would that look for the school?"

Gy's expression went from astonishment to one of shock. "Children? You're… you're…"

"Pregnant," Sandra said calmly.

He turned to her, still stunned. "But… how?"

Sandra chuckled, patting his hand soothingly, murmuring, "Don't worry, Og, I'll explain it to you."

Pat smiled – then suddenly frowned. "July 13! That's only nine days away. Damn it! Bev, Sandra, come with me – we've got to get started! There's so much to do."

Beverly found herself being pulled away by the other women, leaving Picard to face the two men.

"John!" Ralph chuckled. "You dog, you!"

"Pregnant? Married?" Gy repeated – then stared at his friend for a long moment. "You're sure?"

Picard chuckled at the expression on Gy's face. "I'm sure. It's as you said, Gy: you know when something's your passion. Sometimes you just don't act on it as you should.

"I've loved Beverly for years. I've just been too damned arrogant and self-absorbed to realize how much she meant to me – and that's one mistake that I don't want to continue to make," he added.

Gy studied the man for a moment – then looked to Ralph. "You know what this means, don't you?"

The two men looked at Picard.

"Bachelor party."


	37. Chapter 37

July 13 – early morning

The first thing Beverly was aware of was Jean-Luc's body pressed against hers.

In the five months since they had become lovers, she had grown used to waking to his familiar presence, his body curving to embrace hers, his arm wrapped over her waist in familiar possessiveness, his breath, soft and warm, brushing against the back of her neck; she had grown used to it – but still savored the novelty of it, the sheer amazement that they were, indeed, after all these years as just friends, lovers.

She loved this, the early hours of the morning, when she had just wakened, when he was still asleep, when his guards against the world outside were gone – when it was just the two of them. In his slumber, his feelings were unfettered by his concerns about the outside world – or even his concerns about her.

In his sleep, he simply held her, his naked body pressed to hers, held her as though she was the only thing that mattered to him, held her in his undisguised passion.

A passion that was the second thing of which she was becoming increasingly aware.

She savored this as well, the physical evidence of his feelings for her – and of his undeniable masculinity.

For a moment she hesitated though; on any other day, she would have simply snuggled back against him, enjoying the sensation of his growing erection as it pressed against her- but this was not any day.

With a pang of regret, she pulled back the sheet that covered them – all they needed in the heat of the summer nights – and began to ease her way off the bed, hoping not to rouse him from his sleep.

Before she could move however, she felt his arm tighten around her, pulling her close to him.

"It's only four," he murmured. "You don't have to go yet."

"I should," she answered him. "I thought I'd go in a little early. After all, you're not supposed to see the bride before the wedding."

He gave a throaty chuckle. "An old tradition, from a time long gone by. If I hadn't seen you – and done far more than just that – we wouldn't need to get married," he pointed out, his hand reaching to caress the faint swell of her belly.

Beverly rolled over to face him, though in the dark of the room, she could only make out the faint outline of his body in the bed beside her.

"You don't _need_ to marry me at all, Jean-Luc," she reminded softly.

He caressed her face, then kissed her softly. "I know. But… I want to marry you, Beverly. I have for so long. You were, are, always will be, the only woman with whom I've wanted to spend my life."

He looked at her face in the darkness – and saw there all that he loved. "I love you, Beverly. Marry me."

The tenderness in his words struck at her, catching her breath in her throat; tears welling in her eyes, she whispered, "Yes."

His embrace tightened, pulling her to him closely, and the darkness of their bedroom, made love with her.

Tradition now thoroughly disregarded, Beverly and Jean-Luc stood together in the shower, each maneuvering past the other in the cramped confines of the narrow space to stand beneath the downfall of warm water.

It was not, as Jean-Luc had once proclaimed, a more efficient or practical way for them to bathe – but it was, Beverly decided, far more pleasurable. There was something more intimate in sharing this tiny space than even their shared bed could provide: here, in the cold glare of the bathroom lights and without the cover of their emotions and physical passions, they could hide nothing from one another.

That, she thought, and the fact that she enjoyed looking at his naked body.

As he, she hoped, enjoyed looking at hers.

And on that topic…

"So how was the bachelor party?" she asked as she poured some shampoo into her hand.

Picard watched as she raised her hands to her head, beginning to lather her hair, then pursed his lips. "You're doing that on purpose," he murmured, watching as her upraised arms brought her breasts forward, the bubbles running down their curves in languid rivulets.

"Of course," she replied. "You always seem to enjoy it."

He smiled, realizing how well she knew him – and knowing that that was one of the reasons he loved her.

"I do. From you," he added.

"Meaning…?"

"I know Gy meant well – but his idea of going to a…" He hesitated at the phrase, "…strip club was not something I wanted to do. Not that I don't appreciate – or enjoy – the sight of a naked woman – but given the mores of this time – and the economic conditions - I doubt that the majority of the women who display themselves do so out of the need to fulfill their own desires, but more out of the need for income. Watching someone disrobe for that reason is hardly a joyous experience. And…"

His voice trailed off.

"And…?" Beverly prompted.

He smiled, not lecherously, but lovingly. "No matter how beautiful any of them could be, they will never be able to compare to you, Beverly."

He kissed her softly, then let his hand move to her shoulder, her arm, her hip, her…

"I have to go to work, Jean-Luc," she reminded him, gently pushing his hand away. "Teague is coming in at ten so I'll have time to get ready for the wedding – but I still have to open the shop."

"You can be five minutes late," he countered.

"Five minutes?" she chortled. "You have never taken only five minutes," she pointed out. "You never take less than a half hour when it's the second time."

He smiled. "So you've been timing how long we make love?" he teased.

She gave a soft laugh. "Why do you think I keep a clock by the bed?" she teased back.

Chuckling, he kissed her again – but pulled back, allowing her to tilt her head under the water and rinse the shampoo away.

As the last trace of soap ran down her back, Picard reached behind her, turned off the water, then pushed open the shower curtain. Carefully stepping from the tub, he took one of the towels, handed it to Beverly, then took the second and wrapped it around his waist.

Turning to the mirror, he appraised his image, checking one side of his face, then the other – then ran a hand over it, confirming that the face he saw was one worthy of the woman he was about to marry.

Beverly, he smiled – then glanced at her, watching as she toweled herself off.

A quick pass of the towel over her hair, then she pulled the towel off, drying her right hand, the her right arm, then repeating the same on her left arm and hand; a second pass through her hair, then grabbing the two sides of the towel, ran it back and forth over her back before patting her belly and breasts; dropping the towel lower, she patted her buttocks, then carefully dried her legs and feet before stepping from the tub, and wrapping the towel around her hair once again.

Always the same, he thought – and always as beautiful to watch.

I do not deserve this, he thought; I do not deserve this woman.

But she has agreed to marry me – and I will spend the rest of our lives trying to make myself worthy of her.

Unaware of his silent promise, Beverly continued. "So what did you do last night?"

"I was… surprised," Picard admitted.

"By…?"

"Ralph," he explained. "Apparently he persuaded Gy that a trip to the strip club was probably not to my taste…"

"I can imagine Gy's reaction to that," Beverly offered.

"He was," Picard agreed, "somewhat disappointed – but he conceded the point."

"Why was that surprising?" she pressed.

"Oh, not that Gy would suggest that a 'lap dance'…"

"Lap dance?" Beverly interrupted.

Picard shrugged. "I'm not sure what it is – but I think one can make an educated guess," he said.

She looked at him – then smiled. "You're blushing, Jean-Luc," she said.

"Then you can imagine what my reaction would have been had we actually gone through with Gy's plan," he replied. "But as I said, Ralph overrode that decision; instead, the four of us went into Chicago for dinner – and Ralph's choice in food and wines was impressive. You know, Beverly, too often I think of these people as being rather… primitive. They aren't; in their way they are as sophisticated and well-educated as we are; we simply have access to more information than they do.

"Ralph is quite the connoisseur when it comes to these vintages; the wine he chose for our dinner surpassed many of the ones from our family vineyards – including some of Father's finest. The dinner was equally impressive," he continued. "I fear Fred was a little out of his depth in both matters; I think fine wines and fine foods aren't something with which he has had much experience."

"At his age, neither was I," Beverly reminded him.

"At his age, I knew the family vintages – but, like you, I was unfamiliar with much beyond the cooking my mother did – fine food that it was," he quickly demurred – then looked at Beverly, a tender smile coming to his face.

"Jean-Luc?"

"I was just thinking that twenty years from now, he..." He stepped forward and gently placed a hand on her belly, "will be thinking the same thing: that his parents fed him well – but didn't think to teach him about the wines of the world or about haute cuisine."

"Maybe we will," she said.

"And maybe we won't. There are some things – whether it is wine, food, art – that he will learn on his own, and whatever we can teach him, there will be so much more that he will learn on his own," he said. "And I'll be proud to see him do so," he added.

He pulled her into his arms, tenderly holding her, smiling at the future before them – then felt Beverly pull back.

Looking at her, though, he was startled to see a tear forming in the corner of her eye.

"What is it, Beverly?"

"We can teach him, Jean-Luc – but there are so many things that he will never know – like who his parents really are," she answered.

He pulled her to him once again, his arms around her, understanding her concerns all too well. "No. There are things he will never know – that he can never know, Beverly – but we will provide him with everything we can – whether it is in this time, or our own. Then – as now – it is all any parent can do for their child."

After a moment, he separated from her. "But one thing we can do is let him know that his parents were married. Gy is picking me up here at twelve," he said.

"Twelve?" she said, surprised.

"We have a few errands to run," he said mischievously.

"I'm getting dressed at Pat's – so I guess we'll meet you there at one. Providing my dress still fits," she added with a sigh, then patted her belly. "Junior here is beginning to make his presence known," she confessed. "He doesn't show when I'm wearing my apron – but in a dress, it's becoming a little more evident. Not that I mind everyone knowing – but…"

"But you don't want them thinking it's the reason we're getting married. The impetus for it, yes – but not the reason," he said.

"It's going to be awkward enough in the months to come," Beverly answered. "In this world, women my age don't generally conceive – and men your age are very rarely fathers. There are going to be comments made, Jean-Luc," she warned him.

He nodded, seemingly unconcerned, but Beverly knew how deeply those comments would affect Jean-Luc, a man whose personal life was always that: something that was not to be bandied about in public.

But that was Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise, flagship of the Federation's fleet, she reminded herself – not John Picard, martial arts instructor at a one room do-jahng on the outskirts of Chicago.

Here, there would be a few comments from a few of the parents – but for the most part, they simply were no longer important enough for anyone to really care.

Or rather, there were plenty of people who did care – but who wanted only the best for their new friends.

People, she added, who were not about to tolerate any remarks from outsiders.

She grinned, curious about how Pat would react the first time she heard any comments about her age, or Jean-Luc's, or their fitness for being parents. It would, Beverly decided, rival the fireworks they had viewed from Pat's rooftop a week ago.

A week, she sighed as left the bathroom, searching out her work clothes. Only a week.

In one week, Pat had thrown together a wedding, found a dress, talked a local seamstress into altering it to fit Beverly's changing figure, managed to arrange a small reception at a local restaurant, covered Beverly's hours at the shop while she and Jean-Luc got the marriage license… In one week, she had done what it had taken Beverly months to arrange when she was getting married to Jack.

Of course that wedding had been somewhat more elaborate – and she had done it while attending medical school – but even so, Pat was nothing less than remarkable, Beverly thought.

Glancing at the clock, she hastily dressed, then grabbed her apron before poking her head around the bathroom door.

"I have to leave. One o'clock?"

"One o'clock… Mrs. Picard," he added with a smile.

Startled, Beverly stopped.

Mrs. Picard?

Mrs. Picard.

She let the name run over her tongue for a moment – then smiled.

Mrs. Picard.


	38. Chapter 38

July 13 – Afternoon

Beverly ran her hands over her dress uncertainly; despite Pat's assurances, she had her doubts – about the dress, she hastily told herself.

Not about this marriage.

Certainly not about this marriage, she insisted.

Drawing a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down – then looked around the courthouse parking lot, anxiously wondering where Pat was.

Not that she was too nervous to enter the building alone, she told herself. After all, it was only Jean-Luc waiting there for her.

Waiting… to marry her.

Marry me.

Oh, God, we're going to get married, she thought, a wave of pure panic rolling over her. I can't do this! It's too soon – too sudden!

Of course you can, the calmer part of her mind insisted; you married Jack – and in comparison to the time you've spent with Jean-Luc, you barely knew him.

And that was a good marriage, she reminded herself.

This will be good marriage as well, she added; Jean-Luc loves you, and you love him – and we are having a baby…

And that, she realized, was the problem.

She loved Jean-Luc, he loved her; in most circumstances, that alone would have been a good enough basis for a marriage.

It had been a good enough reason for her to marry Jack – and their marriage had been a good one. Oh, it had had its bad times, she reminded herself: they had had fights, disagreements, long periods when she had wither been engrossed in her studies or he had been away on a mission – but even so, their love had been enough to bring them back together.

But under these circumstances? she asked herself. Were they getting married because they loved each other – or because of the baby?

Or worse, were they getting married because they were two lost people who only has each other to cling to in a world four hundred years away from their real homes?

No, she decided, this wasn't right; they shouldn't be getting married.

Maybe later.

Maybe after the baby was born.

But not now. Not for these reasons.

She stared at the doorway – then started toward it.

She would tell him how she felt – and he would understand. He always understood.

It was one reason she loved him so much – but love him as she did, she still couldn't marry him.

Beverly pushed her way through the doors, knowing that she would hurt him once again – but knowing that this was the best decision for both of them – for all three of them.

Jean-Luc stared out the courthouse windows, thankful that the technology of this primitive world for such minor boons as the air conditioning that was keeping the foyer cool against the oppressive heat of the summer day – but even so, the shirt he wore beneath his suit coat was growing damp.

Not that he was nervous. After all, he faced down a fleet of Romulans, negotiated treaties while battles were erupting around him, watched his ship face imminent destruction – and never broke a sweat.

A little thing like marriage was nothing compared to those.

Marriage? Dear God, I'm getting married!

The realization sent a shock wave through him.

It wasn't that he didn't want to marry Beverly – he did. He loved her with all his heart and soul; loved her and loved the child they were going to have.

But marriage? To Beverly? What was he thinking?

She had been married before – and happily! How could he think that he could make her as happy as Jack had done?

Maybe in their own time, in their universe he could have done so; there, he had a position and a career – not only a way to support Beverly and their child, but also the respect of his peers – respect that would let Beverly know she was marrying someone who was a worthy mate.

Bu here? Here he was an elderly, part-time martial arts teacher – and one who would have been unable to survive beyond the poverty level without Beverly's income to bolster his.

Hardly suitable husband material for such a beautiful, intelligent and talented woman.

No, in this world, he couldn't provide for her – and while he was healthy enough now, his future was uncertain.

She deserved better, he thought; she deserved a husband who would be with her for years to come – and that won't be me.

I'll stay with her of course; help support her and care for our child – but when she finds someone who truly deserves her, I'll get out of their way.

She'll agree, he told himself; she'll understand – and she will agree.

She always understood. It was one reason he loved her so much.

He loved her – but he couldn't let her marry him.

Jean-Luc strode toward the entrance, wanting to stop Beverly before she got into the building, needing to let her know what he had decided ; she would be hurt, he knew – but it was what was best for her and for their child.

He reached the door just as she entered – and they both froze.

"You look… beautiful," he said in awestruck amazement.

"You look… handsome," she countered.

They fell silent, staring at one another.

Finally…

"Beverly…"

"Jean-Luc…"

They both spoke at the same time.

Beverly gave a soft laugh. "You first."

"No, you," he insisted.

"No, you please," she protested.

He stared at her for a moment – then realized he had no idea what he had wanted to say. "You look lovely," he finally repeated.

She blushed, then looked down at the ivory chiffon dress. "Not exactly what I had envisioned," she admitted.

"Envisioned?" he echoed.

Reddening, she met his gaze once more. "I… I did think wonder – once – about marrying you… "

They both fell silent, then he prompted, "You had something to say?"

She stared at him – then shook her head. "I forgot," she admitted.

He smiled then reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. "I love you," he whispered, kissing her hand softly.

"I love you, too," she answered.

They stared at one another for a moment, then Picard nodded toward the security area. "Are you ready?" he asked.

Beverly smiled. "Shouldn't we wait for Pat and Gy?"

Picard reddened. "Yes. Of course," he said.

"Nervous?" she asked.

"No!" he insisted instantly – then added. "Perhaps. A bit. You?"

"A little," she conceded.

He looked at her then sobered. "Beverly, are you sure you want to do this?"

She met his gaze – then nodded. "Yes. You?"

"Yes," he agreed.

"No doubts?"

"None," he answered sincerely. "And you?"

"None," she replied honestly.

A bright chuckle interrupted the two. Glancing in its direction, they saw Pat and Gy approaching, a small bouquet of flowers in one of her hands, a small box in the other.

"I have to admit I'm surprised to see you both here," she commented when she reached them. "I thought one – or both – of you might have had a case of last minute doubts."

The two looked at one another - then both shook their heads. "No. No doubts," Picard assured her as he gently squeezed Beverly's hand. "No doubts as all."

Pat smiled to herself; judging from the expression on Beverly's face as they were driving here, she suspected the woman wasn't going to make it inside the building – let alone all the way to John's side – and if Gy's assessment of John was to be trusted, the man was equally nervous.

But seeing them together… She sighed, knowing there were simply some people who were meant to be together. She had felt that way about her Christopher – and seeing John and Beverly here, now, she knew that there place was – and probably always had been – by each other's side.

By each other's side for good, she reminded herself – which meant getting them into the judge's chamber for the ceremony and not just standing in the foyer of the courthouse.

Time to get this show on the road, she told herself. "For you, Beverly," she said, handing a small bouquet of ivory flowers , then, opening the small box she carried, removed the single blossom and gestured to Picard. "And one for you," she said reaching for the lapel of his jacket, pinning the flower into place, then stepped back and appreciated the visage before her. "You clean up real good, John," she said with an approving nod.

He turned to her, a brow raised in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"She means you look good," Gy translated.

"Ah," Picard replied. "Thank you," he added, then glanced at his partner – his _bride,_ he realized, a smile threatening to split his face in half. "But in comparison to Beverly, I am but a shadow, and a poor one at that."

She looked at him, and as their eyes met, a wash of certainty and contentment came over her.

I'm going to marry him, she thought; could anything ever have been more right?

She tightened her grasp on his hand.

Gy coughed uncomfortably. "Ummm… We better get going before you two decide to skip the wedding and get right to the honeymoon."

Pat smiled. "Gy?"

"Hmm?" he replied.

"They've already done that. That's why we're here – remember?" she said.

"Oh, yeah, right," he answered. "Well, come on," he said to the two, then turned and started for the security line.

Picard looked after him for a moment, then turned to Beverly. "Are you sure, Beverly? Is this what you really want?"

She met his gaze, hesitated, then nodded. "I'm sure. And you, Jean-Luc? Are you sure?"

He smiled. "I've never been as certain of anything in my life," he said, then raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I love you."

Giving an almost unnoticeable glance around them, Picard hesitated for a split second, then kissed her quickly.

"I'm sorry," he quickly apologized, only to hear her give a soft laugh.

"Don't apologize. I know you're trying to change," she said, "but you don't have to. Not for me. I love the man you are; I always have – and I always will. And that is the man I want to marry."

The two beamed at one another in utter and complete bliss, oblivious to everyone and everything around them.

Inwardly, Pat smiled at the two people before her – but outwardly, she gave a tired sigh.

"For crying out loud, you two! Would you stop talking about getting married and just do it already?" she exclaimed impatiently. With an unyielding grasp, she took one of Picard's arms, hooked it around her own, then reached for Beverly's other arm, and began marching the two across the room.


	39. Chapter 39

July 13 – afternoon, part 2

Judge Irving Flender didn't care much for his duty as a justice of the peace. As a general rule, he opted not to perform the mundane ceremonies that the position entailed, preferring to leave those tasks to other judges – but this time, the request had come from a friend, and involved two people he was coming to respect and admire – and when confronted with a situation of that sort, it wasn't easy to say 'no'.

And, he had to admit, it was doubly difficult to decline the request when the two participants, now standing before him, were as clearly suited for one another as these two seemed.

And, he added, so clearly in love.

Having met John and Beverly a few months before, he had continued to see them every month as they had reported in about the progress of young Fred Grancher – and while the reports themselves bespoke both a level of professional detachment and propriety, the relationship between the two had was becoming anything but detached.

Not that either one ever did anything that was in the least overt, he added; he had never heard a word of familiarity or sentimentality – but the looks that had passed between the two had displayed a growing affection, until, at their last report, he had caught them actually holding hands.

Still, he added, there was a long distance between holding hands and getting married, he thought – but given the near-giddy expressions on their faces as they stood before him, facing each other, it was obvious that this was something they both had waited for, for a long, long time.

"Well, let's get this show on the road, folks," he admonished the attendees.

Oblivious to his words, Beverly continued to smile at Jean-Luc – then started at Pat's touch.

"Your flowers, dear?" she said, reaching for the bouquet.

Beverly glanced at the flowers in her hand, then realizing what Pat had asked, handed them to her friend, only to turn quickly back to Jean-Luc.

"You have the ring?" Judge Flender asked Gy.

"Ring?" Beverly asked Picard, surprised.

"Can't get married with a ring," Gy informed her with a smile, reaching into his pocket to confirm the presence of the band. "Got it," he added.

Flender looked to his secretary. "License?"

The middle-aged woman nodded. "Everything's signed and completed."

"All right then. John, Beverly? Did you write your own vows, or am I doing the standard ceremony?" he asked.

Beverly looked to her lover, one of the most eloquent and well-spoken men she had ever known, expecting him to answer in the affirmative – and was surprised when he shook his head.

"No even Shakespeare?" she teased gently.

"Not even the Bard's words would do you justice, my Beverly," he said softly.

Beverly moved closer to him, murmuring, "Your Beverly. I like the sound of that."

He took his hands in hers, raising them to his lips, seeming oblivious to the presence of the others, then said, "We should have done this long ago."

Judge Flender gave a soft chuckle as he watched the two. "I think that says more than any words I could offer – but we're here for a wedding ceremony, and a wedding ceremony we shall have." He looked at Gy. "Are we expecting anyone else?"

Gy shook his head. "No. Just us."

The news took the judge by surprise; knowing what he did of the two, he had expected more than these two witnesses – but then again, John Picard was a somewhat reserved man; he could understand his reluctance to make this event a public affair.

"Well then, gather round. John, Beverly, you two should face each other," he informed them, then reached for a book, turned to a bookmarked page, glanced over the contents , returned his glance to the two – and smiled.

"Dear friends, John and Beverly have invited you here today to witness and celebrate this public declaration of the private commitment they have already made to one another. Let us support them with our hope, love, and respect.

"Marriage is the promise of hope between two people who love each other sincerely, who honor each other as individuals, and who wish to unite their lives and share the future together. In this ceremony, they dedicate themselves to the happiness and well-being of each other, in a union of mutual caring and responsibility. We rejoice with them that out of all the world they have found each other; and that they will henceforth find the deeper meaning and richness of human life in sharing it with each other."

If it was possible, the smile on Jean-Luc's face widened; he tightened his grasp on Beverly's hands, and she stepped closer to him, the light in her eyes beaming.

Judge Flender continued.

"Taught by our own joys,  
By our own sorrows,  
Even by our own failures,  
We remind them  
That in marriage  
As in all life,  
Whosoever insists upon saving his lesser goods  
And his little self  
Shall miss what is greater,

But whosoever forgets himself  
In devotion to his beloved  
And in consecration to their common enterprise,  
Is surest to find a full and happy life."

Picard glanced at the judge, then turned back to Beverly. "Enterprise," he murmured. "An apt choice of words."

She grinned back.

Flender's focus then turned to Pat and Gy.

"As we gather here to join John and Beverly in marriage, it is fitting that you, their friends, be here to witness and to participate in their wedding, for the ideals, the understanding, and the mutual respect which they bring to their marriage have their roots in the love, friendship, and guidance you have shared with them. They will need your love and respect in the future as well as on this happy day. Will you, Patricia Edrickson, support them, nurture them and bestow upon them your blessing on their union?"

Pat dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief and smiled at the two before answering. "Oh, I will."

"And you, Gyorr Mooseheart Edrickson? Will you support them, nurture them and bestow upon them your blessing on their union?"

Gy coughed noisily, then nodded. "I will."

The judge looked back to Beverly and Jean-Luc. "Gy and Pat have told me, as have you both, that this is not your home, and that those who have been important parts of your lives could not be here today, and that both of you have lost friends and family who, if they could be here, would be sharing in the joy of this day. Their roles your lives helped make you who you are today, and have been responsible, at least in part, for your presence here today. We honor and remember them here even as we savor today's joyous moments. Join with us, then, in fond recognition and memory of all these people. Let us bring them into our thoughts and our hearts."

Beverly's eyes misted slightly. "Jack," she said. "Wes."

Picard nodded. "I think they would both approve this, Beverly. As would Will and Deanna."

"And Geordi and Data."

"And Worf," he added.

Beverly gave a soft laugh. "And Worf."

Flender cleared his throat, interrupting the two, then glanced back at his book. "John, Beverly, please face each other."

His secretary chimed in. "Your honor? They are facing each other."

"What? Oh, yes… Let's see… Yes, here we are." He looked at Jean-Luc.

"John, are you ready to enter into this marriage with Beverly, believing the love you share and your faith in each other will endure all things?"

Jean-Luc stared into Beverly's blue eyes as he spoke. "I am."

"And you, Beverly? Are you ready to enter into this marriage with John…"

She interrupted. "Jean-Luc."

"Pardon?"

"His name is Jean-Luc," she explained.

Flender hesitated, quickly deciding if using the man's full name would in any way violate the rule of law – then decided it didn't. "Beverly, are you ready to enter into this marriage with John Luke, believing the love you share and your faith in each other will endure all things?"

"I am," she said with quiet certitude.

"Then will you please join your hands," he intoned.

"The pledges you will now repeat are a statement of present intent and commitment," he told them both. "They cannot endure unless you make them endure, with the resources you will draw from deep within yourselves. May this be but the beginning of a relationship that will grow and mature with each passing year until the latter days become the promise of the first."

With due solemnity, Judge Flender turned to Jean-Luc. "John… Excuse me… John Luke, do you commit yourself to Beverly, as your wife, accepting her for all the risings and settings of the sun, for all the days of your lives, do you pledge your faithful love and support as long as time is yours?"

Jean-Luc looked into Beverly's eyes. "For all time, I do."

Flender raised a brow at the choice of words – then turned to Beverly.

"Beverly, do you commit yourself to John Luke, as your husband, accepting him for all the risings and settings of the sun, for all the days of your lives, do you pledge your faithful love and support as long as time is yours?"

"Until the stars themselves grow cold, I do," she agreed joyfully.

Flender smiled, then quickly sobered. "It is a custom to exchange rings as a symbol of love. A circle is the symbol of the sun and the earth, and of the universe. It is a symbol of wholeness, and perfection, and of peace. The rings you give and receive this day, then, are symbols of the circle of shared love into which you enter together as husband and wife."

"John Luke, what token do you Beverly give that you will perform your vows?"

For a moment nothing happened, then Pat poked Gy, hissing, "The rings, dear; the rings."

"Oh! Yeah. Right!" he said, reaching into his pocket, fumbling for a moment, then hastily pulling out two thin bands. Comparing the two, he selected the smaller one and handed it to Picard.

"Beverly, do you receive this ring in token of the same?"

Beverly nodded, then added, "I do."

Proffering her hand to Jean-Luc, he placed the ring on her finger, then tried to slide it into place – but to his chagrin, the maneuver didn't go as smoothly as he would have liked, catching on her knuckle.

With a soft laugh, Beverly gently pushed his hand back, then finished pushing the ring into place.

"John, repeat after me: Beverly, with this ring, I thee wed."

"Beverly, with this ring, I thee wed."

Giddy with nervousness, Beverly gave a laugh, then hastily covered her mouth with her newly decorated hand. Moving it quickly away, she apologized. "I'm sorry. I'm just…"

Flender raise d a hand. "No need to apologize, Beverly; I wish everyone would approach marriage with your – and John's – level of excitement and joy. Now do you have a ring for John?" he asked.

She started to shake her head, only to have Gy hold up a ring for her to give as well. "Can't let the women at the school keep thinking he's available anymore, can you?" he teased.

"I was never 'available', Gy," Picard reminded him as he met Beverly's gaze.

"Yeah, but they didn't know that," Gy countered. "Now they will." He placed the ring in Beverly's palm, then stepped back to join Pat.

"John Luke, what token do you Beverly give that you will perform your vows?"

She looked down at the thin band, then held it up to her lover.

Flender smiled. "John Luke, do you receive this ring in token of the same?"

"I do."

She took his hand in hers, then easily slid the ring onto the third finger of his left hand, then stared at it.

It was the first time she had ever seen him wearing jewelry – but even so, the ring seemed oddly at home on his finger, as though it had always been a part of him.

"Beverly, repeat after me: John, with this ring, I thee wed."

"Jean-Luc, with this ring, I thee wed."

The two stared at one another, seemingly unaware of the others in the room.

"I love you," he said softly.

"I love you," she answered, then moved closer, seeking his closeness.

Before they could embrace, however, the judge interrupted with a soft clearing of his throat.

"Before I complete the ceremony, I would like to offer you a traditional blessing," he said quietly.

"John Luke, Beverly…

"May the sun bring you new energies by day;  
May the moon softly restore you by night.  
May the rain wash away any worries you may have  
And the breeze blow new strength into your being.  
And all the days of your life,  
May you walk gently through the world  
And know its beauty.

Now you will feel not the rain, for each will shelter the other.  
Now you will feel not cold, for each will warm the other.  
Now you will feel not solitude, for each will company other.  
Now you are two persons, but both will lead one life.  
Go now to your dwelling to enter into the days of your life,  
And may your days be good and long upon the earth.

Treat yourselves and each other with respect, and  
remind yourselves often of what brought you together.  
Give the highest priority to the tenderness,  
gentleness and kindness that your connection deserves.  
When frustration, difficulties and fear assail your relationship,  
as they threaten all relationships at one time or another,  
remember to focus on what is right between you,  
not only the part which seems wrong.  
In this way, you can ride out the storms when  
clouds hide the face of the sun in your lives - remembering that  
even if you lose sight of it for a moment, the sun is still there.  
And if each of you takes responsibility for the quality of your  
life together, it will be marked by abundance and delight."

He watched as the two studied each other, though whether they heard his words or not, he couldn't tell; in this moment, he realized, their world simply consisted of each other.

Not a bad start for a life together, he added silently.

He waited for a long moment, loath to interrupt this moment of quiet joy between the tow, then continued. "Inasmuch as John Luke and Beverly have consented together in this ceremony to live in wedlock and have witnessed their vows in the presences of this company and have given and received rings as a token of their vow, I now pronounce, by the authority vested in me, and in accordance with the laws of the State of Illinois, that they are husband and wife. John Luke, you may kiss your bride."

Picard looked at Beverly, then gently pulled her to him.

They stared at one another for another moment, then Beverly moved closer, pressing her lips to his in a soft kiss – a kiss that slowly lost its tenderness and began to grow deeper.

Pat sniffed as her tears began to flow, then turned to Gy, burying her head against his shoulders. "Oh, aren't they a beautiful couple?" she cried.

As if suddenly aware of the presence of other, Jean-Luc's eyes widened, and he pulled back – gently – his face quickly reddening.

To his relief, Beverly simply smiled at his reticence, but her hand stayed firmly in his grasp.

He looked at the hand, then at the woman – then thought, _the hell with it. It's our wedding day._

Pulling her to him, he wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her soundly, deeply – and passionately.

Pat's sobs quieted after a moment as the kiss continued – then Flender cleared his throat noisily.

Gy laughed. "Don't worry: they have to come up for air sometime," he chuckled – then added a moment later, "I think.

"One of these days.

"Eventually."


	40. Chapter 40

July 13 – evening

"Sorry, guys," Gy apologized as he pulled the car into an open parking space in front of the school, "but I didn't think that was going to be so fast! Our reservations aren't until 6:00 – and while I don't mind hanging out in the bar waiting, the bar doesn't even open until five! So why don't we go up, have a snack – Ma, can we grab something from the shop? – and hang until it's time to go?"

Beverly looked at Jean-Luc, seeking out his thoughts on the matter; still vibrating with nervous joy over the events of the last two hours, food was the last thing on her mind – but the thought of using the bathroom was one of the first.

Equally oblivious to the idea of food, Picard gave a nod of consent, and the four slowly extricated themselves from the vehicle.

Gy hurried ahead, reaching for his keys, then held the door open for the two who seemed to be unaware of anything except one another; eyes locked on each other, they held hands, grinning.

Pat gave a happy sigh as she walked behind them.

The two slowly climbed up the stairs, moving aside as Gy hurried past them, keys in hand once more, then unlocked the school doors for the two, then grabbed the handle, an pulled it open.

Eyes locked on one another, neither Beverly nor Jean-Luc noticed anything – but one another – until a roar filled the room.

"Surprise!"

Startled, they dropped their joined hands and faced a room filled with dozens – hundreds! – of students, parents and regulars from the coffee shop. Streamers and balloons hung across the ceiling – along with a banner announcing "Congratulations!" - while tables of food covered one side of the room and a small group of musicians sat in the far corner.

"Congratulations! Best wishes!" came a dozen cries as people hurried forward, surrounding the couple. Little hands reached out from between the legs of the adults, proffering cards and small bouquets of flowers to the couple.

Stunned, it took Beverly a moment to recover – then she quickly began to thank those closest to her, alternating with crouching down to give and accept hugs from the younger students.

"Congratulations, Beverly!" "Best wishes!" "I'm so happy for the both of you!"

Jean-Luc, too, began to accept the outstretched hands and the occasional congratulatory hugs from the adults.

"You lucky dog!" "'Bout time, man!" "Good work, John!"

Too many congratulations, Gy realized after a moment, watching as the pressing crowd threatened to physically overwhelm the two; pushing his way through the crowd, he grabbed Jean-Luc's arm, pulling him back, then did the same for Beverly, guiding them out of the crowd and toward the back of the school, where the two office chairs – the closest thing the school had to a comfortable chair – had been decorated with streamers, balloons, hand-crayoned pictures, and, on one chair, a black top hat, and on the other, a short white veil.

"You hafta sit there, Miss Beberly," one of the girls said, pointing to the veiled chair.

"It's Missus Beberly!" one of the other girls corrected her. "She's married now! You have to call her Missus Beberly!"

"Uh-unh! Mr. John and Mr. Gy say that you call ladies 'Miss' and you call boys 'Mister'!" the first one insisted.

"You're both right," Jean-Luc quickly placated the two. "It's Miss Beverly _or_ Mrs. Picard." He fell silent at the sound of the words, then turned to look at his bride, his eyes bright with joy. "Mrs. Picard," he repeated to her.

She smiled back at him.

"An' you sit there, Mr. John!" one of the girls informed him.

Following the commands of the two girls, they took their places facing the gathering – then looked accusatorially at Gy. "You set us up," Beverly said sternly.

Gy's eyes widened and he raised his hands in protest. "Oh, this wasn't my doing!" he insisted. "I was fine with going out for dinner – but Ma insisted we have a party – and then she and Sandra got everything rolling and… well here you are," he concluded. " 'Sides… everyone loves you guys. They want to celebrate this with you - and for you. So sit back and enjoy and let them do this for you," he advised.  
"Graciously," he added, looking pointedly at Jean-Luc before turning back to the gathering.

Picard turned to Beverly, surprised by Gy's comment. "What does that mean?"

She smiled. "It means you can be a little… brusque… when you're the center of attention," she said.

He harrumphed quietly. "I don't enjoy being 'on display', Beverly" he reminded her.

"I know – but these are your friends… your family," she added softly, taking his hand, raising it to her lips and kissing it.

A wash of disapproval ran through the children's voices. "Eww, she kissed him!"

The adults, on the other hand, had a slightly different opinion about the kiss. "Kiss him right!" someone called out. "Yeah – a kiss!" "Let's see a kiss!" "Kiss!" Kiss!"

Despite his admonition, Gy raised a hand, stilling the crowd. "Hey, no kissing – not until we have a toast! Ma! Sandra! It's time for the bubbly!" he called out.

It took a few minutes before the glasses were distributed, with Gy, Pat and Sandra assuring everyone that the bubbly was nothing more than ginger ale, but eventually everyone had a glass and were raising them toward the couple.

"To John and Beverly!"

Turning to one another, the two started to raise their glasses to their lips when Gy stopped them. "You're supposed to hook your arms around each other before you drink," he told them.

"What?"

"You know, like, like…" He stopped, then spied Sandra in the crowd and beckoned for her to join him. "Here, like this," he said, then hooked his right arm in Sandra's right arm, then both raised the glasses – somewhat awkwardly – to their lips.

"Ooooo," one of the boys whistled. "Look at Mr. Gy!"

With the crowd's attention off them, the Jean-Luc and Beverly sipped the drinks without the obligatory arm twist – then shared a quick kiss.

"Hey! That doesn't count!" someone said, spying the kiss.

Picard smiled. "Well, it will have to for now," he replied.

"Don't think you're getting out of it that easily, John," Gy informed them, "but they'll have to wait, because we've got food and dancing and cake and gifts to get through before you two are done with us!"

True to his word, Gy directed the crowd to the food as the musicians began to play. Ordered to stay in their chairs, plates were brought to the two, as other found places on floors, the couches and chairs, the floor mats or any place that was open, chatting and visiting with one another as well as with the guests of honor, with Pat, Gy, Sandra, Ralph and Fred walking among the crowd, pouring ginger ale or handing out juice packs. Despite repeated calls for the couple to kiss, they deftly managed to avoid having to perform the act in front of the others, or did so at a moment when everyone was distracted enough that only a few saw the swift press of their lips.

"Yeah," Gy commented when someone protested, "but you should have seen them at the courthouse; I didn't know anyone could hold their breath that long! I was afraid I was going to have to do CPR," he added.

Pat cringed at her son's comment; she had cautioned him against embarrassing the couple too much, reminding him that John was, after all, a very reserved man – and one who was quickly moving toward being his business partner in the school, just as Beverly was verging on taking over the coffee shop – once their baby was born, she added. At least he had kept that in mind that that topic was taboo this evening. She knew that there were enough people who were going to be upset about the marriage as it was; announcing Beverly's pregnancy was going to ruffle even more feathers.

Not that anyone would wish them badly – but she also knew that more than a few of the women were interested in John, just as a few of Beverly's customers were interested in her. Their marriage was going to crush a few fantasies, she knew.

Then again, she added, it was not their place to make such an announcement – and certainly not at their wedding reception!

Still, Pat realized a little later, Beverly _was_ pregnant – and judging from the woman's expression, nature was beginning to call with some degree of urgency. Remembering her own pregnancy, she pushed her way through the crowd, grabbed Beverly's hand and helped her through the well wishers.

In the back hall, however, Beverly turned to head up their apartment - but Pat hastily stopped her. "It's locked," she said. "I didn't want anyone going up there during the party – you know how the children can be. And…" She reached into her purse, retrieved a small box and handed it to Beverly.

"What's this?" Beverly asked.

"Your garter!" Pat replied – then frowned as Beverly stared at the lace covered piece of elastic. "You know – John takes it off your leg and throws it to the single men – and whoever catches it is the next to be married." She gave Beverly a puzzled look. "You do know about throwing the garter – and the bouquet, right?" she asked.

Beverly shook her head. "Sorry, no. Those weren't traditions where I grew up."

Pat raised a brow, then relented, sighing. "Gy's right; you two _are_ from Mars. Well, it's a tradition here. Of course, the young folk put the garter high on the girl's leg, and the man takes it off with his teeth…"

"John's not going to do that," Beverly instantly informed her.

"Well, not in front of all of us," Pat concurred with a wink. "Though clearly what you two do upstairs is a whole 'nother matter!"

Beverly stared at Pat in astonishment – then broke out in a soft laugh, then gave a faint gasp of discomfort. "I'll put that on – but I really need to use the bathroom first," she said, pushing past Pat to get to the small room.

Returning a few minutes later, Pat gave her an inquisitorial stare – and in response, Beverly raised the hem of her skirt, revealing the garter just over her knee – high enough to remain concealed, low enough to prevent embarrassing either the new bride or groom.

"Tastefully placed, my dear," Pat said. "And after John throws the garter, you'll throw your bouquet – don't worry," she added, seeing the look of disappointment of Beverly's face. "It's a duplicate bouquet; I don't know about you, but I would have been heartbroken to have thrown away my wedding flowers – if I had had any," she added.

Beverly reached for her friend's hand. "You didn't have much of a wedding did you?" she asked softly.

"No – everything was done so quickly – it almost makes your wedding look well-planned!" she joked.

"This wedding _was_ well-planned," Beverly contradicted. "By you – and John and I are very grateful. Thank you," she said softly.

Pat managed a teary smile. "You're welcome, my dear. I'm so glad I could do this for you – for you both. I just wish it could have been more. If I had had a daughter, I think I would have thrown her a gala wedding, living vicariously through her!"

"You could always throw a gala wedding for Gy," Beverly pointed out.

"Gy?" Pat sighed. "I love my son, Beverly, but I can't imagine him settling down – let alone getting married! Since he broke up with Corrie – good thing that – he hasn't been seeing any one. Shame, too – he's a good man, he's got a good job…"

"Give him time, Pat; I suspect that John's mother said much the same about him," she told her friend.

"Then there's hope," she sighed. "But enough about me and mine, Beverly – you've got an audience awaiting you," she reminded her.

And Jean-Luc was facing them alone, Beverly thought. Hurrying out from the back hall, she quickly realized that despite their separation from Starfleet and their own time, Jean-Luc was still as able as ever: hating being the center of attention, he had moved from his chair and was walking amongst the guests, obscuring himself as he talked with them – or, more accurately, she thought, as he listened to them.

The children, however, seemed to be more fascinated with him – and the events surrounding the wedding – than they were with listening to their parents.

Working her way through the throng, Beverly had just reached his side when he reached for her hand, squeezing it gently, but deigning to kiss her in front of so many others.

But even this gesture seemed to meet with one young man's disapproval.

"Yuck. Girls gots cooties, Mr. John!" he protested.

"Not all girls have 'cooties', Timothy," Picard corrected the young man. "And even if they did, the benefits of being with someone you love can outweigh the risk of 'cootie' contamination."

"You _love_ Miss Beverly?" the boy gaped, astounded.

"I do," Picard answered, smiling, then looked at Beverly. "I do."

She smiled back, only to turn back to Timothy.

"But you're so OLD!" the boy argued.

Picard gaped, not quite sure how to respond to the remark.

Beverly handled it a little more readily. "You're never too old to be in love," she said.

"Yeah, but you're like… twenty!" he insisted, dumbfounded that people so ancient could think about something like love.

Eyes widening in amused delight, Beverly leaned forward planting a kiss on Timothy's head. "Now that, my dear, is the best wedding present I could get," she informed him.

Confused, Timothy gaped – then hearing a cry of laughter from some of the other children, hurried off to join them.

"Good for the ego, aren't they?" one of the parents mused.

"For the moment – then they'll crush it a few minutes later," Beverly agreed.

"Oh, that they will," the woman agreed, then thought for a moment."That's right – you've dealt with children before. Pat told me you have a son. Is he here?" she asked, glancing about the room.

"No. Wesley's traveling," John interjected. "He was on a break from college and we haven't been able to get word to him."

The woman gave a surprised look. "I bet this will come as a bit of a surprise when he finds out," she murmured.

"A pleasant one, I hope," Beverly said, glancing at Picard. "John and Jack – my husband… my first husband," she amended, looking at Jean-Luc with a bit of a start at the realization, "were close friends. After Jack died, John remained a friend of the family – and Wes was always supportive of our friendship. I think he'd approve of our getting married," she said.

"I know he would," Picard offered.

Beverly turned to him, her eyes misting at the thought of her absent child, and he drew her close. "He would be happy for you – for both of us, Beverly," he said softly.

She nodded, then pressed her head against his chest. "I know – but I do miss him," she said.

Picard wrapped his arm around Beverly, holding her for a moment as tears threatened, then looked at the woman. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" he asked uncomfortably.

"Oh, of course!" she exclaimed. "My God, I was a wreck at m own wedding! I smiled so hard my cheeks ached for a week, then I'd burst out crying… Let me get you some punch," she added a moment later, hurrying off toward the refreshment table.

"Are you all right?" Picard murmured into Beverly ear as he held her.

"Yes, yes – it's just that I do miss Wesley," she said. "Jean-Luc, I can understand that Will and the other might have given up on us – but Wesley wouldn't. He must know that we're lost – but alive!" she said.

Picard nodded. "Yes – but all of time and space is a big place, Beverly, even for a Traveler," he reminded her. "He may well know that we weren't killed – but just when and where we are is another matter."

She nodded, then straightened, sniffled, and wiped at her eyes. "At least we didn't lose each other," she said gently.

"Now that would have been a tragedy," he replied, then kissed her.

A cry of approval rolled over the crowd at the contact, and Picard hastily pulled away.

"You want them to stop?" Gy said as he pushed his way back to the two. "Then give them something else to do. Go cut the cake, do the flower thing and we can start dancing. There's some gifts to open, too," he added, then pushed the two toward the refreshment table.

A multi-tiered cake adorned with a spray of what turned out to be icing flowers and leaves had been moved to the center of the table. At the top stood a plastic figure of a couple, dressed in what were probably the traditional formal wedding garments of the time: the man in a black long-tailed suit with a top hat reminiscent of the one that had been attached to Jean-Luc's chair, and the woman in a gown that billowed out about her, an equally ornate and voluminous pouf of netting adorning her head.

Apparently there was a ceremony to the cake cutting as well, Picard realized as they were directed to both hold the knife, then cut a slice – no, no! from the bottom layer! they were quickly admonished – then to feed each another a small bite from the piece.

A noisy – but good humored – argument broke out among the spectators about whether they were supposed to feed one another or smash the cake into each other's faces; decorum won that argument, and they opted for the former, carefully offering each other a small bite of the cake while Gy took pictures – then handed the knife over to Sandra, who began to cut the cake and serve it to all the guests.

Their chores not yet over, however, Pat hastily pulled them back to the front of the room, ordering Beverly to take her seat, then calling on the single men of the room to gather around.

"Fred! Gy! George – oh, I see you back there – no hiding! All you single men, gather round! Whoever catches the garter is…" She watched as the men began to back off at the presumed announcement and grinned. "No, no – nothing like that! Whoever catches the garter is going to be lucky in love! As to who gets married next, well, that's up to you guys – but who can say 'no' to finding 'Miss Right'?" she teased them.

"It's not that I want 'Miss Right' as much as I want to find 'Miss Right for Now'," one of the men called back.

"Well, you'll never know if you don't catch the garter!" she said.

Turning away, she looked at Jean-Luc and Beverly. "You sit, Beverly; John, you take the garter off her leg…"

"I do what?" he asked, aghast.

"Take the Beverly's garter off her leg," she replied.

Beverly raised her skirt just past her knee, revealing the lace garter.

Picard stared at it for a moment, then looked at the crowd gathered around.

It was embarrassing, it was humiliating – both to him and to Beverly!

He looked at his wife, hoping she would offer some way out of the situation – but given that she had put the garter on, she clearly had no problem with this tradition.

And, he sighed, I've done more humiliating things when the circumstances required. I've recited Shakespeare to Lwaxana Troi, he reminded himself – in front of my entire bridge crew and a Ferengi, to boot – taking a little piece of lace off Beverly's leg can't be that difficult.

"I just take it off her leg?"

"Umm-hmm. Then when you're done, you'll turn around so you can't see who's out there and throw it over your shoulder. Traditionally, the one who catches it is next to marry – but these days, fewer people get married than just get together – so the one to catch it is supposed to be lucky in love. And when you're done, Beverly's going to throw her bouquet to the single women," Pat informed him.

Picard looked at his bride, who grinned then sat down on the edge of the chair.

Reluctantly, Picard knelt before his wife, then reached for the garter – only to be stopped by cat calls from the men.

"Dude, make it real!"

"Use your teeth!" one called.

Picard turned, cast one look at the man, then turned back to Beverly.

"Or not," the young man added weakly.

"You're supposed to make it a little… exciting, John," Pat said softly.

"I will," Picard replied between gritted teeth – then added, "after everyone goes home."

Pat burst out laughing, then turned to quiet the men down – and was a little surprised to see most of the boys had joined the crowd – as had Ralph.

He waved at her, a smile on his face.

Stunned, Pat turned back to the newlyweds.

Surprising her once more, she watched as Jean-Luc reached for Beverly's shoe, removed it carefully, then, with tantalizing slowness, moved his hands up her leg.

It wasn't a caress, Beverly thought; she had her legs caressed by this man, and that was an experience that was far more sensual and tantalizing than what he was doing now – but given the reactions of the men around them, she suspected it transcended whatever they normally did to their partners.

Reaching her knee, Jean-Luc pushed her skirt back just far enough to reveal the garter, then eased one finger beneath it, sliding it off her slim legs with the same languid technique he had used as he moved his hands up her leg.

Sliding the elastic piece off her foot, he looked at her. "I feel like an idiot," he murmured.

"I'll make it up to you later… Mr. Picard," she said huskily.

A smile crossed his face – then he turned to the crowd, raised the garter for everyone to see, then turned away and tossed it over his shoulder.

Given the reticence most of the men had shown about getting involved, the two were doubly surprised by the enthusiasm they showed in attempting to catch the prize. It hit the upraised hand of someone in the second row, bounced away, fell into the realm of the younger students – and a melee followed.

A moment later, one person arose from the crowd, holding the garter in stunned amazement.

"And the winner is our own Fred Grancher!" Pat announced joyfully. "And now for the ladies!"

Beverly task was far simpler; taking the second bouquet from Pat, she turned, tossed it over her shoulder, then turned to see the results.

Sandra stood there, the bouquet in her hands, a sheepish look on her face.

"I didn't mean to catch it," she tried to insist as Pat moved to congratulate her.

"Nonsense," Pat said soothingly. "You just go stand over there with Fred. The two of you are going to join in the first dance, right after John and Beverly."

"Dance?" Beverly repeated excitedly.

"Dance?" Picard repeated, horrified.

Pat swatted Picard lightly on the shoulder. "Slow dance, John. Don't worry, you don't have to wow the crowd. Just move her around the floor, and then Fred and Sandra will join you, then everyone who wants to join can. After that, you two can get back to mingling and eating."

Pat hurried over the musicians, talking to them for a moment, then clapped her hands.

"Attention everyone! It's time for the first dance of the evening and the first dance for the newlyweds! Let's all hear it for the new couple, John and Beverly Picard!"

Picard looked at his bride, then sighed, yielding to the inevitable as the gathering applauded, and led her onto the center of the school room floor.

"Don't worry," Beverly assured him. "Pat's right – no one will really care what we look like. And I've seen you dance, Jean-Luc, " she reminded him. "You can move it as well as any man – when you want to," she added.

" 'Move it'?" he echoed.

She smiled. "You know what I mean. You're a great dancer, even if you don't want anyone else to know it."

Turning her to face him, he raised the hand that held hers, slid his other hand onto her back, then look at the musicians.

One, a young lady, stood, moved to the front, then nodded at the others – and the soft strains of music began to fill the room.

A moment later, she began to sing as Jean-Luc and his bride moved across the floor.

"Upon a darkened night,

The flame of love was burning in my breast.

And by a beacon bright,

I fled my house while all in quiet rest.

Shrouded by the night

And by the secret stair I quickly fled.

The veil concealed my eyes

While all within lay quiet as the dead.

Upon that misty night

In secrecy, beyond such mortal sight

Without a guide or light

Than that which burned so deeply in my heart.

That fire 'twas led me on

And shone more bright than of the midday sun

To where he waited still

It was place where no one else could come.

Oh night that was my guide!

Oh night more loving than the rising sun!

Oh night that joined the lover to the beloved one

Transforming each of them unto the other.

Within my pounding heart

Which kept itself entirely for him

He fell into his sleep

Beneath the cedars all my love I gave.

From o'er the fortress walls

The wind would brush his hair against his brow

And with its smoothest hand

Caressed my every sense it would allow.

I lost myself to him

And laid my face upon my lover's breast

And care and grief grew dim

As in the morning's mist became the light.

There they dimmed amongst the lilies fair

And there they dimmed amongst the lilies fair." *

The music faded away, but lost in the arms of one another, neither Jean-Luc or Beverly seemed to notice.

It wasn't until the next song – a noisy tune with a heavy beat – began to play, that they realized where they were. Blushing, Beverly pulled away, Jean-Luc following her.

"Oh, that was so beautiful!" Pat said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "You two make such a lovely couple."

"But a tired couple," Beverly said quietly.

Pat nodded, understanding. "People are still having a good time – but they do have work tomorrow…"

"As do we," Jean-Luc reminded her.

"As do you," she agreed. "Well, it's going to take a little time to get everyone out of here, and then we have to clean up the place, so… why don't you two say your good-byes and head out?" she asked.

"Excuse me?" Picard said. "Head out?"

"Go take a drive for an hour or so. Everyone expects that you're going to spend the night at a hotel, so they'll hang out here until you leave; if they knew you were staying here, they'd probably keep visiting until God knows when. So go have a proper dinner or go shopping – or go necking," she added with a wink. "It's a gorgeous evening. Here," she added, handing Picard her cell phone. "I'll give you call when the coast is clear."

Despite her best efforts to clear out the room, though, it took more than an hour until the two had managed to say their good-byes and extend their thanks to all of the guests – and given the generally convivial mood of the gathering, Picard suspected Pat was going to be hard-pressed to get them out of the room in anything less than a few hours.

Still, he suspected she was right: if they didn't leave, it was unlikely anyone else would either.

Finally, the stood at the doorway, waved to their friends, and hand in hand, headed down the stairs.

Exiting the school, they stood on the street for a moment, breathing in the warm night air, then turned to each other.

"Where to, Mr. Picard?" Beverly asked.

He pulled her into his arms, kissed her soundly, then smiled.

" 'Where' doesn't matter, Beverly," he replied, "as long as we go there… together."

* The Dark Night of the Soul, Lorenna McKennitt


	41. Chapter 41

July 13 – night

It was more than two hours before the call came announcing that the school had been emptied, but the night had proven itself pleasantly warm and the stars shone with surprising clarity.

Driving through the forest preserves that were scattered throughout the area, they had found one that was still open and had parked the borrowed car in the darkened lot.

Sitting on top of the car's hood, they had spent the last few hours watching the stars above, talking of little, holding hands, occasionally kissing – in general, savoring the first few hours of their married life.

The rest of their life, Picard thought to himself.

He pointed to one star. "Eridani Epsilon."

"You've been there?"

He smiled. "There isn't really a 'there' there. Eridani Epsilon b and c are giant planets, not capable of sustaining life. There was a mining station in the inner asteroid belt, however; I was there when I was a new lieutenant, just assigned to the Stargazer, assisting Captain Ruhalter in negotiations between the miner's guild and metal production facility."

"A diplomat even then," Beverly said.

"Hardly," he demurred. "I did a lot of observing and listening – and keeping my mouth shut. A good thing, too; I had so many ideas about how to resolve the problem that I never really heard what the real issues were. It wasn't until Captain Ruhalter heard out both sides – and that took several weeks – that he was able to ferret out the true areas of contention and help them derive a compromise that suited them both." He gave a soft chuckle. "He was a wise man; he understood the egos at hand. He never offered them an 'answer'; he let them figure one out for themselves, so they were both more invested in the solution and had more reason to see that it worked."

"And did it?"

"For many years. Last I hear they were in negotiation for the right to mine to second, outer asteroid belt," he added – then tightened the hand that held hers.

"You miss it."

He nodded. "I do. I miss the stars, the exploration – our friends." He pushed himself up onto one elbow and turned to look at her. "I do not miss the negotiations, however; that one agreement took more than a month to arrange, Beverly. When I was twenty, a month seemed forever – but now, it's an eternity. To waste that much time just listening to people argue… no, I don't want to go back to that – not when there's so much to look forward to," he added, his eyes wandering to her belly.

She laughed, then placed his hand on her abdomen. "The next few months are going to seem like an eternity as well – until Junior here decides to show up – and then time is going to race by. One day he'll be an infant – before you know it, he'll be a young man – or a young woman," she added softly, "on his own in life."

He pressed his hand to her belly, wishing he could feel their child moving, but knew it was still too early for that; instead, he moved his mouth to her abdomen and began to speak. "Be nice to your mother. Don't give her a hard time – and don't be in too much of a hurry to leave us," he said, then placed a kiss over their child.

He moved a little higher, placing a kiss near the waistline of her dress, then between her breasts, then on her neck, then reaching her face, smiled down at her.

"Perhaps," he said quietly, "we should be going home. I believe we still have a wedding night to celebrate."

She smiled, reached for his head, pulling him to her and kissing him lightly, teasingly, hinting at what was yet to come.

The front of the school was dark as they pulled in front; exiting the car, Jean-Luc moved to Beverly's side of the car, opened her door, extended his hand to her and escorted her out.

"Always the gentleman," she said.

"For you, always," he said. "However," he added, as he unlocked the door to the school, "might we dispense with one of the wedding customs of this period?"

She raised a brow. "Which one?"

"The ritual of carrying the bride over the threshold," he said, looking at the twenty-four steep steps that led to the school's main doors – and thinking of the additional fourteen that led to the apartment.

"I'm not that heavy – yet," she teased.

Horrified that he had insulted her, he began to explain. "I didn't mean that! I meant…"

She laughed. "I know what you meant: the stairs are steep, ill-lit…"

"I'm going to have to do something about that," he muttered to himself.

"You're beginning to sound like Gy," she countered.

"I know – but the door does need work, and the steps need a new banister…"

"Another good reason for you not to carry me. The last thing I want to do tonight is administer first aid or treat you for an injured back, sprained ankle or whatever." She gave him a mischievous look. "I have other plans for you tonight," she added.

"Indeed?" he said, smiling.

"Indeed," she purred.

Locking the doors behind them, they walked up the stairs, entered the school, then unlocked the door to their apartment and walked up the long staircase to their rooms.

And stopped.

The wall that curved over their bed had been covered with sheer fabric, greens and blues shimmering with metallic threads – and behind the fabric strands of delicate lights shining through.

The bed linens had been replaced by white satin sheets, and the bedspread replaced with a beautiful quilt.

"Gy," Picard said.

"And Pat," Beverly agreed, moving forward to touch the quilt. "Jean-Luc, this is handmade," she gasped, looking at the embroidered cover.

"It's beautiful," he said. "I haven't seen anything like this since I was a child," he said.

"I have. Nana had one; it was a prized possession of hers – one of the few things she brought with after we moved to Caldos. She told me once that it had taken hundreds of hours of work to make… Oh, my…" she added, as she lifted a corner of the blanket and looked at the back.

"Jean-Luc & Beverly," read the embroidered script. "July 13, 2011."

"Pat made this – or had it made," she said, stunned.

Hearing the catch in her voice, he realized she was on the verge of tears at the generosity of their friends; pulling her to him, he kissed her softly, then gently pushed her back.

"It's been a long night, Beverly. Why don't you get ready for bed? Our wedding night can wait for the morning. Or tomorrow," he added, remembering that she had to get up in a few hours to go to the coffeeshop.

She nodded, then turned, heading for the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Stripping off his jacket, Picard was starting to hand it up when a sharp bark of laughter came out of the bathroom. Startled, he called out, "Beverly?"

She opened the door and poked her head out. "Apparently Pat has other ideas about tonight," she informed him, holding up a small card. "Sandra is working my shift tomorrow – and Fred is working yours. We have the day off."

"Indeed."

"Indeed," she agreed.

"In that case…"

Laughing, she closed the door, and he resumed undressing.

A few minutes later, he turned off the main lights – but the decorations remained on, giving the room a stellar appearance. Without knowing he was doing so, he thought, Gy had managed a credible replication of his quarters on the Enterprise – including the image of the star field that shone through the viewports of his bed.

One of my few regrets, he thought: I will never be able to share that sight with Beverly.

The bathroom door opened – and he drew in a deep breath.

"Beverly," he murmured.

She stepped into the room, and gave a slow turn, the low-cut deep green negligee clinging to her every curve.

"You like it? I'm afraid Junior's getting a bit more evident than I thought he would be when I bought it," she admitted.

"You – and he – or she – are stunning," he murmured. "Absolutely stunning… Mrs. Picard"

She smiled – then gave him an equally appraising glance. "You're not so bad yourself, Mr. Picard," she said as she looked over his body, resplendent in a pair of white pajama bottoms.

Walking to the foot of their bed, she sat down – then reached for the drawstring of his pants and pulled it.

"Mr. Picard," she said breathily as his pajamas fell to the floor.

"Mrs. Picard," he replied, then moved closer to kiss her.

A moment later, he pulled back, smiling as a thought came to him. "I just realized that this is the first time I've ever made love to a married woman."

"You'd better get used to it," she said playfully. "No more single women for you."

He placed on finger on the thin strap of the gown, then pushed it off her shoulder. "No," he murmured, then began to kiss her shoulder. "Never."


	42. Chapter 42

August 23, 2011

Beverly trudged up the long staircase, the basket of laundry in her arms. It wasn't overly heavy, but there was no longer any way for her to balance it against the curve of her hip as she had for the last few months, as she no longer had a curve there.

Well, she thought, there is a curve, but it's going in the wrong direction - which was only making matters worse! she grumbled silently.

It had been more than 20 years since she had been pregnant, and in those years she had grown used to her body as a constant, seldom changing part of herself. Now, however, every day brought a few more ounces of weight in places she hadn't carried weight in decades, and even her years of dancing hadn't prepared her for having to make constant adjustments to her shifting center of balance.

She was, she decided, inelegant, clumsy, graceless... all the same things she had felt as a young girl, when she was tall, thin and gangly.

Her learning to dance then had helped with all of those things: she had discovered that she could coordinate her body to move smoothly and effortlessly, her height and slim figure accentuating her graceful movements, giving her not only the appearance of confidence in her actions, but helping her develop an inner sense of composure as well.

Now, she thought, she was back to where she had been fifty years before - except this time, dancing was not going to help the situation. Hell, she thought angrily, there wasn't any dancing to be done! Even if Jean-Luc had been willing to dance with her, her bulging belly was making it harder and harder for him to get close to her - if he had even wanted to, she added to herself.

And he didn't want to.

They had only been married for six weeks - and already his interest in their sex life was almost gone. Oh, yes, he'd been ever so attentive and loving in the first few weeks after the wedding; they'd made love every morning, every night - and sometimes a few more times as opportunity presented itself - but of late, as her belly grew and her gracefulness and figure disappeared, he'd grown less and less interested - though he'd always begged off with protests of having more work to do with Gy, new students, marketing campaigns, advertising... There was always some reason he had to leave after the last class every evening, and he didn't return until well after she had gone to sleep.

Was there someone else? she had asked herself after the second night he had overly late in returning to their home. It was possible, she admitted. After their wedding - and the subsequent announcement that they were starting a family - a few women had left the self-defense classes, clearly disappointed that Jean-Luc was no longer 'eligible' - but at least a dozen more had joined, as had at least that many new students. Clearly the fact that Jean-Luc was not free to marry one of them seemed to matter less than the fact that he was, as Pat so inelegantly put it, a 'stud muffin'.

And there were feminine offers enough of 'help' for every project around the school - and probably 'help' on the other projects that Jean-Luc and Gy were off planning every evening. And maybe those meetings got out earlier than Jean-Luc let on, Beverly admitted. And maybe he wasn't hurrying home from those meetings quite as quickly as he would have done a few months before. And maybe...

And maybe not, she told herself firmly. He was Jean-Luc Picard, after all - a man of honor and integrity; if he intended to sleep around, he would not have bothered with getting married in the first place - even though, she added with a disconsolate sigh, he may have done that more out of his belief in the tradition than his belief in the concepts of fidelity and faithfulness.

After all, she added, he was a virile man, after many years of near-celibacy, and if he couldn't find himself capable of making love with her, given the way she looked of late, he might accept an outlet for his needs with someone else.

She paused on the first landing of the stairs, wiped the sweat from her forehead and the tears from her eyes, then shook her head. No, she insisted, no matter what, Jean-Luc would not cheat on her – on any woman; he was an honorable man. But that only meant that he wouldn't go outside their relationship, she thought; it didn't mean he still found her desirable.

Beverly muttered a silent curse against the raging heat of the day, and continued her slow advancement up the steps. Twelve more steps, she counted, then through the school, then up the remaining steps to their rooms, where at least she could lie down in the coolness of the air-conditioned space.

The school itself had no such relief from the heat of the day: between the age of the building, so old that pipes - long capped off - protruded from the walls, bearing witness to the old gaslights that had illuminated the great room long ago, and the twenty-foot high ceiling that trapped the hot air every afternoon; there was nothing that could be done to cool the space, short of a complete renovation of the entire school.

Unfortunately, it was a renovation that was both logistically and financially impossible at this moment, she reminded herself grimly.

At least their apartment had a small cooling device - and the coffeeshop had a far larger one that kept the customers and the staff working in relative comfort.

Unless, of course, one _had_ to be in the back throughout the day, baking the pastries, preparing the lunches, making the soups, she added. Sandra helped in that accord, she reminded herself - but of late, Beverly was finding it harder and harder to deal with the customers at the front of the store, her girth making it difficult to move quickly and easily, resulting in bumping into poor Sandra with every turn, spilling coffee, dropping pastries, and making mistake upon mistake upon mistake.

And she was barely five months along! she railed silently. It wasn't supposed to be like this!

No, she amended, it had almost always been like this; it was only due to their good fortune of living at a time when climate could be controlled to maintain a tolerable level that people didn't have to endure the heat - or the cold, or the snow.

She paused when she reached the main studio level, running a hand through her wet and matted hair, grimacing when she realized what she must look like, then shifted the laundry basket onto her other side, crossed the floor and made her way up to their apartment.

There was a time when she had thought that Jean-Luc's habit of neatly laying out his clothes on the bed was charming. Everything laid out, side by side, each piece as neatly pressed as possible, ready to be put on quickly, efficiently, neatly, ready for him to put on as soon as he finished in the bathroom.

Today, however, she found the habit annoying. It was as though only his needs were important, she thought as she entered their apartment - as though he was the only one who needed the bed! She could hear the shower running - he was probably enjoying a nice cool shower even as she stood, drenched in sweat in the middle of their bedroom - and all she wanted to do right now was collapse on the bed in the cool of their room.

Damn him! she thought, dropping the laundry basket in tired frustration; I've been working in the heat of the shop all day, hauling the laundry over to the laundromat and back - and it's ninety degrees out! - then climbing those damned stairs - only to find his clothes all over the bed! Damn him!

Frustrated and exhausted, she walked into the bathroom, ready to tell him off - then stopped, surprised by the sound from coming from behind the shower.

After eight months of sharing the same bathroom with the man, she knew what he sounded like while he was bathing – the relatively noiseless pattern of water running as he lathered his skin, the soft grunts as he shaved, the splashes as he moved beneath the stream of water, rinsing himself off: what she heard now was none of those sounds – but it was a sound she had heard before, in some of their more intimate moments of shared pleasure.

He wasn't bathing, she realized, listening to his ragged, rhythmic breathing; he was masturbating.

She stared at the drawn shower curtain, too shocked to move, watching as his shadow moved in a pattern she thought he had limited to when he was with her, then realized that the rhythm was growing more frequent, almost frantic; too wounded to hear him reach the climax he would no longer share with her, she turned on her heel and left the room.

She stood in the cool air of the bedroom for a long moment, trying to collect her reason and her wits.

He won't make love to me, she thought; he hasn't touched me or even tried to touch me in more than a week. He'd rather pleasure himself than touch me. Oh my God, what's happened to us?

Stricken, she managed to find her way to the edge of the bed, and slowly sat down.

What do I do? If he doesn't love me any more... I can't stay here... I can't go any where... How can I do this alone... Our baby... My baby...

"Beverly? What are you doing home so early?"

Lost in thought, she didn't hear as Jean-Luc entered the bedroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

Looking at the back of his wife sitting on the edge of the bed, he approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder...

She jumped to her feet, spinning around to face him. "Don't touch me," she snapped.

"What?" he replied, stunned.

"Don't... touch... me!" she repeated emphatically.

"Beverly, what's wrong?" he asked.

"I said, don't touch me. Don't come near me. Just... stay away! Go away! Or... I'll go away," she added, giving in to her grief. "If that makes it easier, I'll go away."

"Beverly, what is wrong? What's going on?"

She stared at him - then looked at the bathroom door - then back at her husband. "I..." she looked at the bathroom door again. "You won't make love to me anymore. But..."

He glanced at the door - then realized that she had walked in on him.

He closed his eyes in regret, then reached for her, only to have her pull away in revulsion.

"Beverly..."

"Don't," she said. "You don't have to explain. I mean... I understand. Look at me," she whispered. "You'd rather masturbate than make love with me..."

Jean-Luc stared at his wife for a long minute, then reached for her hand and led the stunned woman back into the bathroom.

Reaching for one of the towels, he wiped the condensation from the shower off the mirror, then turned Beverly to face it.

"You're right," he said softly. "Look at you."

Beverly looked at the reflections before her in the mirror: Jean-Luc, handsome and muscular - and her own image, worn, ragged, tired.

It said it all.

"What do you see?" he asked her softly.

She stared at her own image, then closed her eyes, shaking her head.

"Tell me," he pleaded softly. "Please."

She opened her eyes, then managed, "I'm… old. Tired. Worn out."

"That's not what I see, Beverly; I see a woman who is brilliant, dedicates herself to those around her, is selfless, giving, caring... the woman who is carrying our child, the woman who is always - always - the most beautiful woman I have ever known - and the only woman I have ever loved."

A tear streamed down her cheek. "Then why haven't you... It's been a week since we made love last - and you were just..." A sob, barely choked back, interrupted her. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

He took her by the shoulder, turning her gently to face him. "I'm sorry," he replied. "I thought I was sparing you… You've been working so hard, and when you come home, you've been so tired… I didn't want to impose my needs on you…"

"Your needs?"

He gave an embarrassed half-smile, then looked up and gave a sigh. "Beverly, you are beautiful. You always have been. In all the years I was alone, it was you that I thought of. Images of you filled my nights – and occasionally my days," he admitted with a blush. "But as lovely as you were, in my dreams, in my fantasies, and in reality, the way you look today – and every day – is ever so much more exciting. The sight of you, our child growing in you…" He gave an uncomfortable laugh, then shook his head. "Damn it, Beverly, these last few weeks I've been a walking erection. The only time I seem to be able to control myself is when I'm working – I can't think of anything less appropriate than being aroused when I'm working with Gy or the students! But as soon as they're gone and I'm alone again, or with you or even just thinking of you…" He glanced down, then pulled his towel away, revealing his growing arousal. "This happens."

Beverly looked down at him, then raised her eyes, meeting his once again. "Jean-Luc… why didn't you say something? I thought you had…"

"What?"

"I thought you had stopped loving me, or that you regretted marrying me… "

He pulled her to him. "Never. Oh, my Beverly, I could never stop loving you – and I will never regret marrying you. Of everything I have done in my life, I know that marrying you was one of the best things I have ever done." He held her in his arms, then kissed the top of her head as she buried her face against his chest.

"But you _are_ carrying our child," he added a moment later, "and I know that's been difficult for you – physically and emotionally. As much as I have wanted – _needed_ – to make love with you, I thought it was unfair of me to ask that of you. I'm sorry; I should have told you…"

"And I should have been more aware," she replied.

"You've had other concerns," he replied, one hand moving to her belly, caressing it softly, then looking at her. "You are so beautiful," he whispered hoarsely.

"And you have a class in half an hour," she reminded him. More than time enough, she knew – but summer classes always brought students in at erratic hours. No one might show for the first class – or they might arrive twenty minutes early.

He smiled. "I do – but tonight is a short night. Classes will be over at seven thirty – and I'll be up here at seven thirty-one."

Beverly smiled back. "Hardly," she countered. "You'll be chatting with everyone until at least eight."

He started to protest, but she silenced him with a kiss. "Do what you need to do, Jean-Luc. I'll be here, waiting, when you get done – but just remember," she said.

"Yes?"

"I will never be too tired to make love with you," she said.

He smiled, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her soundly.

She savored the kiss, relishing the contact, aching to fulfill each of their needs after too long a time, then reluctantly pulled away and looked down. " 'Walking erection', indeed."


	43. Chapter 43

September 5, 2011

With a sudden turn of the wheel, Sandra pulled the vehicle onto the gravel side of the road, shut off the engine, and turned to glare at Gy.

"Let's get this straight, Gy: you were the one who waited until the last moment to accept my friend's offer of tickets for the Renaissance Faire - and then asked me to drive so that you and John could finish putting together the bid on the new school location - which is due tomorrow! - and now you're bitching about the route I'm taking?" she snapped angrily. "If you had wanted to drive you could have - except you wouldn't be driving! You'd be sitting on the fucking Tri-State with the other hundred thousand idiots who waited until the last day of summer to take their holidays!"

"I'm just saying…" Gy began to protest, only to be cut off by the woman.

"_I'm_ just saying you had a month to get this bid together, and you waited until the last minute to start. You had two months to pick a weekend to go to the faire - which you didn't have to, you know! I would have been more than happy to go up with John and Beverly or Pat and Ralph - but you insisted that you wanted to go, then dilly-dallied until the last fucking moment to pick a day - and only agreed to this because it was the last day they are open! And last night you had the balls - or the lack thereof - to call me and ask me to drive so the two of you could work on that bid? And now you're giving me shit because you don't like the fact that we're NOT sitting in the middle of a traffic jam? Get the hell out of my car!" she raged.

Gy blanched, then started to say, "Sandra..."

"Get the hell out. You can walk to the faire or walk home - I don't care. But no one - no one - treats me like that. Out!"

Dumbstruck by the woman's tirade, Beverly sat stunned in the front seat beside Sandra, staring. "Sandra..." she began gently.

"I'm sorry, Beverly," she apologized, though nothing in her tone sounded apologetic in the least. "I don't mean for you or John to be caught in the middle - but Gy has been acting like an ass for the last month, abusing the good will of everyone around him, and I for one, am sick of it. So get the hell out of my car, Gy," she repeated.

Gy stared blankly for a moment - but a moment too long for Sandra's liking. She opened the door to the car, got out, yanked open Gy's door, and, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, pulled him out of the vehicle. As he watched in mute astonishment, she climbed back in the car, started the engine, and began to pull away.

"Sandra," Jean-Luc began from his place in the back seat.

"He's an ass, John - and he's been for that way for the last month," she explained before he could voice a protest. "I know: breaking up with Cor's been devastating for him - but I'm tired of being dragged into that emotional cess pit along with him - especially since he dug the hole in the first place!"

"Perhaps," Picard said, trying to ameliorate the situation, "But leaving him in the middle of nowhere without a way to get home is hardly going to change that behavior," he pointed out.

"Really? I'd put money that if he turns around and starts the long walk back to Batavia, he'll have a good twenty hours of time to think about what a jerk he's been," she returned. "Then again, if he had half a brain and had stopped kvetching about my driving and paid attention to the signs, he would have seen that we're less than a mile from the faire," she added. "By the time we get in, park and meet Sho to get the tickets, he'll have had the chance to catch up to us."

"And?" Beverly coaxed.

"And if he's genuinely apologetic, I'll let him ride home with us. And if he's not, he can call home and explain to Pat what's happened - though I don't think she'll be any more sympathetic with his situation than I am," she added.

Beverly smiled. "I thought this smacked a little of Pat's machinations," she murmured.

"Oh, she let me know she's not happy with her son - but I assure you, my anger is quite legitimate," Sandra said. "Gy's been jerking me around the last few weeks about coming out here - and he's been doing the same to you, John. I know that you could have gotten a bid in on that Randall Road site if Gy had gotten the docs together on time - but he was so busy sulking about Cor dropping him that he didn't bother."

Picard sighed, knowing she was right.

On the Enterprise, he had encountered similar situations - but there he had always had the luxury of being able to foist those situations onto Deanna's shoulders, letting her deal with the fragile emotions of some of the crew, or having Will guide the behaviors into those better suited to a crewmember of the flagship of the Federation.

But here? Now? Here he wasn't even sure what his relationship to Gy was. Friend? Certainly - but friendship didn't always survive when intimate relationships were in the way. Employer / employee? he asked himself. That might be a closer description of the relationship - but if that were the case, Gy was the superior, and it became even less his place to say something.

And so, he admitted, chagrined, he had done nothing, hoping time and self-recognition of his behavior would snap Gy out of his increasingly self-absorbed mood.

It hadn't.

And, he conceded, Sandra was quite correct in pointing out that that selfishness was affecting their business: with over two hundred students enrolled in the school, their current location was no longer large enough – but though they had found a better and larger site, Gy's procrastination had cost them the opportunity to purchase a building that would have put their new, larger school in a prime location - and a quite a reasonable price, he added.

My God, he realized with a bemused smile; I'm turning into a businessman!

Not that there was anything wrong with that, he quickly defended himself - but this was not the role he had ever envisioned for himself.

Then again, neither was that of teacher.

Nor that of father, he added, looking at his wife and smiling.

A sensation of warmth filled his soul - a sensation of contentment. Yes, he thought, there were times I miss the Enterprise, miss my command, my friends, my work - but less so with every passing day. I have a life here - a good life.

What did Pat say once? Do what you love, and you'll never have to work a day in your life?

In a way she was right - but wrong as well. It wasn't a matter of doing what you loved that filled one with satisfaction, he had come to realize, but rather the corollary: love what you do. Whether it's the work you had once dreamt of doing, or simply the jobs that life handed out, put passion and determination to do every moment of that work, and you will find satisfaction and contentment.

But then, he added, I'm not standing behind the counter of a coffeeshop, handing out beverages and biscuits.

That he could find emotional and personal satisfaction in teaching children had come as a great shock to him - but that Beverly had not been able to find the same working at the shop had not.

She had so much more to give this world, he knew - her intelligence, her vivacity, her brilliance, her wit... but the medical world had all but shut her out, with almost every researcher, magazine and study group declining to follow - or sometimes even to read! - the information and ideas she freely offered them.

But apparently, without credentials she was persona non grata in this world.

She didn't complain, of course, but he could see the melancholy in her soul with each returned letter and rejected email.

There were a number of options: a return to medical school - an option that would occupy the next ten years of her life - providing she was accepted and providing they could afford it - but she had rejected the idea, citing the lack of energy - and the fact that she had given up seeing her first child grow up while she pursued her degree. Beverly had made sure he understood that that was not something she was willing to do… this time.

He had been stricken by her selflessness in that act, making him yearn all the more to find a way to provide her with the ability to continue her life's work - but there were some things that transcended even an ex-Starfleet captain's abilities, he knew.

The car slowed, then turned from the old road onto a field of grass, following the deeply worn ruts of previous vehicle through a vine covered gate - grape vines, Picard recognized bemusedly - and onto a huge open field, packed with at least a thousand cars.

Sandra opened the window to hand over a few dollars, and was directed to a space, which she quickly took.

After a two hour trip in the blazing sun of the early September morning, they tumbled from the car quickly, trying to escape the heat and humidity of the small space. The summer sun, however, had also heated the faire grounds - though the faint breeze wafting over the field granted a small measure of relief.

Sandra grabbed the hem of her long peasant dress, fanning her legs, then gestured for Beverly to do the same.

"It'll be a lot cooler once we get inside," she said. "The old part of the faire has a lot of old trees, so it's in the shade - but the new section - where we go in - doesn't have many. Probably on purpose," she added with a smile, "since that means everyone goes into all the shops, just to get out of the heat - and if you just happen to buy something..." she concluded with a smile.

Picard smiled understandingly – though even after nine months in this world, he still didn't quite understand the fascination with the apparent need of these people to obtain material possessions – and what, he asked himself, could people of the twenty-first century _need_ from a place that focused on a world four centuries gone?

Beverly finished fanning her legs with the voluminous peasant dress that Sandra had loaned her, then reached for Jean-Luc's hand. They turned toward the brightly decorated entrance, then stopped as they realized Sandra hadn't joined them.

Turning to watch her, she fanned her legs a few moments longer, then brushed the imaginary folds out of her costume, then extracted a vest from the car and pulled it on. She laced the front of the vest, carefully tightening each row, then gathered the laces together, neatly tying them in a bow, before reaching back into the car for the small pouch that served as her purse.

"Sandra?" Beverly said gently.

"Yes?"

"He'll catch up if he's going to," she advised.

Sandra reddened, realizing she had been caught out in her delaying tactics. "I know. I guess I'm not quite the hard ass I think I am," she sighed.

"That's hardly something to apologize for," Picard said gently. "Why don't you and Beverly go meet your friend - and I'll wait for Gy," he said, then met Beverly's disapproving eyes and drew close to her. "I don't want you standing out here in the sun," he said softly.

Beverly frowned; though she appreciated – indeed, even sometimes enjoyed – his moments of tenderness, there were times when Jean-Luc tended toward being overprotective of her and their child – then realized this wasn't one of those times. Well, she added, not entirely. Despite his reticence toward dealing with the personal issues that faced those who served under him, she knew he wanted to confront Gy about his recent behaviors – and didn't want to humiliate the man by doing so in front of them.

A man-to-man talk, she thought, then amended the thought: not man-to-man perhaps, but rather, father to son.

She kissed him softly, then reached for the collar of the richly hued peasant shirt the Gy had loaned him, adjusting it unnecessarily, then smiled. "Make sure you don't get sunburned," she cautioned him, then turned to Sandra and guided the concerned woman toward the front of the faire.

"What if Gy decides to walk back?" Sandra asked as they moved away from the car.

Beverly chuckled. "I don't think that's likely. He's a proud man, I'll grant you – but he's not a stupid one. But if he doesn't get to car soon, John will call him."

Sandra gave a dismissive snort. "I'm not so sure about Gy so damned smart, Beverly; his school is on the verge of becoming incredibly successful - and yet he's shooting himself in the foot by not moving to get that new location! He's acting like a four year old, sulking 'cause Corrie dumped him – but from everything he said, he was done with her!"

"He wanted to break things off with her, yes - not have _her_ break things off with _him_. It puts him in a very uncomfortable position – one that he's not familiar with being in, I think," she answered.

"I guess not – but even so, he's being such a jerk. My fiancé dumped me when I lost my job – but I didn't get to sit around the house feeling sorry for myself!" she protested.

Beverly raised a brow. "You were engaged?"

Sandra sighed, rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Yeah. I met Greg in grad school, and after I got out – and got a great job – he proposed. Looking back, I realize that he proposed because he knew that my income would insure that we'd have a decent life – and that he dropped me when he realized that wasn't going to happen – but we did fit together well," she said. "He could hold his end of an intelligent conversation, we had similar interests – but enough different ones that kept the relationship fresh and interesting – he was fun in bed…"

"Did you love him?" Beverly interrupted.

"No. I mean I thought I did, then, but now… I think I never really was 'in love' – but marriage doesn't have to be about love, Beverly. Sometimes just having someone – anyone – around is all you need. I retrospect, I think maybe I just didn't want to be alone."

"And now?"

"Now… Now I can afford to support myself – and I'm not sure I'm interested in being responsible for anyone else." She looked at Beverly. "What about you? I know you love John – but you guys waited a long time to marry him."

Beverly gave out a long exhalation. "It's a long story – but while we've been friends for a long time, our careers made a relationship difficult. We were just starting to explore a very tentative relationship when we wound up here… but in some ways, our relationship has some of those same tenets you had with your fiancé: John's intelligent, well-educated and well-spoken…"

"Fun in bed?" Sandra interjected.

Beverly reddened, then glanced down at the front of her dress, the loose gathers concealing the swell of her belly.

Sandra followed her gaze then laughed. "Okay, that's a given. But… would you two have gotten married if you weren't pregnant?" she asked.

"Who knows? I'd like to think yes, but the concept of being married didn't mean much to me. Don't take that the wrong way. Marriage is a wonderful institution – but when John and I decided to pursue this relationship, it was with the knowledge that it would be the last one for each of us. Getting married was not the finalization of our commitment to one another; deciding that we wanted to be together was.

"I don't think we could have done it any other way," she added. "When we were just friends, we each watched the other having relationships, and while we both will deny it, I know that I was jealous of those women. It was unfair, of course, since I wasn't willing to get involved with him then – but it still hurt," she concluded.

"But he's yours now," Sandra reminded her.

"Not mine," Beverly corrected. "If he ever decided this wasn't working and wanted to walk away, I would let him."

"But he won't," Sandra concluded.

Beverly smiled. "No. He won't. Neither of us will."

Sandra sighed contentedly. "You're lucky, Bev," she said, then hesitated, string into the gathering of people outside the gates. "Hey! That's Sho! Yo, Sho!" she called out, waving at him. "Sho!"

She glanced at Beverly apologetically. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she assured her. "Your friend's been waiting long enough."

"Thanks, Bev. I'll get the passes from him and meet you at the gate," she said, then hurried away.

Beverly watched the young woman run toward her friend, then glanced back to where Jean-luc stood by Sandra's car, patiently waiting.

Looking down at her belly, she placed a hand on the rounded mound and patted it reassuringly. "It looks like it's just you and me, Junior. Let's go find a shady tree to sit under and wait for your father."


	44. Chapter 44

Sept 5 – part 2

Jean-Luc leaned back against the hood of the car, studiously ignoring the heat of the sun as it radiated off the metal surface and into the backs of his legs, his hands carefully folded, his demeanor calm, his eyes focused on the slowly approaching young man.

He had been tempted to shift his weight as the heat had begun to grow uncomfortable, but he wanted to make no moves that Gy would misconstrue as being aggressive or authoritarian; the man was carrying a chip on his shoulder that was all but visible, and Jean-Luc wanted to do nothing that would add to the man's already defensive attitude.

It wasn't as if the discomfort was intolerable, he reminded himself; he endured worse - far worse - and lived to tell the tale.

A small smile crossed his otherwise implacable expression.

"Don't laugh at me!" Gy snapped as approached, then stalked by angrily.

Picard fell into step alongside him.

"Actually, I was trying to decide which was more uncomfortable," he replied calmly, "having my, um... posterior roast against the hood of Sandra's car or enduring a three hour ceremony with the dress braid of my collar scratching my neck - and protocol requiring that I not move."

Gy glared at him. "Trying to remind me that you're 'military' - and therefore have more self-control than I do?" he seethed.

Picard looked at him. "To be honest, Gy, I wasn't really thinking about you at all."

Taken aback, Gy stumbled slightly on the uneven surface of the field, then quickly caught himself. "Then why were you waiting?"

"I wasn't sure you would be joining us - but if you did, I wanted to let you know that Sandra and Beverly went ahead."

The wind taken from his sails, all Gy could manage was a deflated, "Oh."

They walked for a moment more, then Gy added, "So no lectures?"

"About?"

"About... everything," he said.

Picard slowed his pace. "Gy, regarding the school, it's your business - and how you operate that business is up to you. Remember, I work for you; in the end it's is your decision, and I have accept that, even if I disagree. As for your personal life..." He gave a short laugh and a small shake of his head. "I'm in no position to say anything. I haven't always made the best decisions about my own life, and I have been known to take out my displeasure on those around me... on occasion," he added.

Gy looked over the top of his sunglasses. "You're shittin' me. You? Make mistakes?"

"It's not a matter of making mistakes, Gy," he replied. "Everyone makes mistakes; everyone fails. There's no shame in that. What embarrasses me is that in those moments I needed my closest friends most, I turned away from them - and tried to turn them away from me. I felt humiliated - and I think that I didn't trust those closest to me to be to be able or willing to support me."

Gy considered that for a moment. "Yeah," he murmured, then looked at Picard and added, "not even Beverly?"

Picard snorted ruefully. "Beverly was never one to allow me too much time for introspection. She allowed me a few hours of self-pity - then she'd kick me in the posterior..."

"Butt," Gy corrected.

"Pardon?" Picard said, stopping.

"It's your 'butt', not your 'posterior'. I'd say 'ass', but I don't want to get in the habit of using it, then slip during a class. The kids will break out laughing if you say 'butt', but the parents will walk out - with their kids - if you say 'ass'. Saying 'posterior' is kind of... snooty," Gy explained.

Picard smiled at the advise. "Duly noted. Beverly..." He hesitated, then smiled. "Beverly would kick me in the butt, tell me I was being an ass - then offer to listen, or just sit with me - or lend me a shoulder to cry on."

"And did you? Tell her, or cry on her shoulder?"

He smiled. "Cry? Rarely. But talk? Often. Sometimes long into the night, or over breakfast... After a time, I didn't need to use words; just knowing she was there was enough for me. The inconsequentials of sharing croissants and tea in the morning, talking about work in the evenings..."

Gy nodded solemnly as they walked on, his eyes locked on the nearing main gates of the faire. "I always thought that's what a marriage should be - not just for sex, but for sharing your life with them. I never felt that way about Cor," he said quietly. "Never felt I really could trust her. I knew it wasn't working - I was never going to marry her. Hell, we hadn't even been out on a date for a month when she left!"

Picard nodded solemnly.

"So why does it hurt so much? Her dumping me?" he sighed.

"Perhaps we are simply not meant to be alone in this life," he replied quietly. "Life is a storm of events and emotions - and any rock that we can cling to becomes our source of solace and security," Jean-Luc said quietly. "It's one thing when we make the decision to let go and cast yourself adrift once more in those waters - but quite another to have the rock shift out from under you. It's startling and shocking - and rarely pleasant."

Gy looked to the man and smiled. "Quite the philosopher, aren't you, John?"

"Hardly. But..." He stopped and faced the younger man. "Failing is not a sin, Gy; it's not a crime, and it's not a sign of moral turpitude. It's just... failing. The crime, the true failure, is in not persevering. Take something, some small experience, some piece of knowledge, from each failure, and move on. But do move on - in your time."

Gy met the man's eyes, then sighed. "Easier said than done, man."

"True. But it gets easier when you get the hardest work out of the way first," he suggested, then glanced toward the gates leading to the faire grounds.

Gy followed his gaze - then sighed again. "I guess I owe everyone some apologies." He turned to Picard who promptly raised a hand.

"Not to me, Gy," he said, "but I think you owe a rather large one to Sandra. She doesn't work for you, you know - but sometimes you treat her that way. She's been more than kind and generous - and you've treated her rather badly."

Gy looked at him in astonishment - then nodded. "Guess I've been the ass this time," he muttered, then looked back at Picard, clapped him on the shoulder, and started running toward the entrance. "Meet you up front," he called back, then hurried toward where Sandra and a young man stood talking.

Picard watched for a moment, then made his way to where Beverly was seated on the edge of a make-shift wishing well, fanning herself with a folded piece of paper against the rapidly rising heat of the mid-morning sun.

She looked at him, her eyes questioning him curiously.

"Off to make some apologies," he explained.

"Good," she said, then eased herself up.

He frowned at her slowed motions. "Are you all right?"

"Too warm, too big, hungry - and Junior's tap dancing on my bladder," she admitted.

"He's..."

"Or she," she quickly reminded him.

"Or she," he agreed with a smile, "is simply taking after his - or her - remarkable mother. Perhaps we have another 'dancing doctor' in the making," he teased.

Beverly glared at him. "No. One or the other - that's fine - but I don't want him - or her - following me on that mistake."

"It's hardly a mistake to be skilled in so many things," he pointed out. "But time will tell; for all we know, perhaps we have another vintner on the way, or a musician..."

A wash of utter contentment came over him as he thought about their child - and their future. Surreptitiously, he glanced around the entryway - then realized that there were hundreds of people entering the grounds - and none of them were paying wither of them the least bit of attention.

Reveling in the anonymity, he pulled her to him, kissing her soundly, then loosened his hold. "Since I am, in part, responsible for your being 'too big', may I make amends, my lady, by attempting to remedy the other matters? I understand there are lavatories within, as well as a shaded portion of the fairgrounds - and Sandra was talking about something called a pippin..."

Beverly purred at the thought of the deep fried fruit pie, then slipped her arm into her husband's. "Lay on, MacDuff," she directed.

Crossing through the large crowd at the entry gates, they made their way to where Sandra, Gy and another young man stood talking – though the latter seemed to be doing the majority of the speaking while Sandra and Gy stood in awkward silence.

Seeing Beverly and Jean-Luc approaching, Sandra turned to them – relieved – and smiled. "Sho's got your tickets," she said, retrieving two sheets of paper from her friend's hand and passing them to the couple. "You just have to show them at the gate."

Beverly took the papers, then nodded at the second man. "Thank you for the tickets," she said, then glanced at Sandra encouragingly.

Reddening at her omission, Sandra hastily made the introductions. "Beverly, John, this is my friend, Sho Imahara. Sho, this is John Picard, and his wife, Beverly. Be nice," she added with a grin, "Beverly's my boss."

"Hardly!" Beverly laughed. "We both work for Pat," she countered, then turned back to Sho. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Imahara," she said, extending her hand.

Jean-Luc duplicated the motion. "I understand you and Sandra are old friends?" he added.

Sho nodded. "We both were at the university at the same time – though Sandie was in econ, and I was pre-med."

Beverly's eyes widened. "You're a doctor?"

"Researcher," he countered. "I did one semester in surgical rotation – and quickly found out I didn't like dealing with 'squishy' stuff," he said with an expression of distaste. "Fortunately, I was able to transfer my knowledge to clinical research; I'm doing my graduate thesis at the University of Chicago, and, providing I get the paper done in the next few months, hope to graduate in the fall."

"Good luck to you," Jean-Luc said, "though I am glad you were able to take today off for this. Gy and Sandra have said it's quite the experience."

"I don't know about that," Sho demurred. "Been to one Ren Faire, been to them all."

"May be, Sho, but John and Beverly haven't been to any," Sandra interjected.

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"They just moved to the area this winter," Gy explained.

"Well then you're going to have a great time. Sandie and I come here almost every year – and my early comment notwithstanding, it really is a good faire."

"If we ever go in," Gy murmured.

Sho nodded, then handed one of the tickets to Gy. "Then let's get to it."

As the five got in the entry queue, Beverly turned to Sho once again. "You said your last name was Imahara?" she asked.

Sho nodded.

"By any chance, are you related to…?"

"Grant Imahara?" Sho sighed. "No. No relation. Or maybe generations back – but Japanese heritage aside, no relation. I don't build robot anythings, and I'm not really into blowing stuff up. Not that I don't like a good concrete truck explosion, but…"

Beverly shook her head, slightly confused. "No. I was curious if you were related to someone named H. Imahara. He – or she – did some interesting work in virology in the 1990's; I happened to be reading a paper he or she wrote on regulation of hsp70 induction in thermotolerant HeLA cells the other day…"

The man blushed. "Sorry. Everyone always asks if I'm related to Grant Imahara – the guy from Mythbusters?" he said.

Beverly glanced at Jean-Luc, and the two both shook their heads. "I'm sorry; I don't know what that is," she replied.

"The tv show?" Sho replied, somewhat surprised.

"Oh," Beverly said.

Gy spoke up. "They don't have cable," he explained.

"No cable. Jeez, what do you two do at night?" Sho asked in astonishment.

Jean-Luc blanched as Beverly quickly spoke up. "Jean-Luc works in the evening, and I use the time to catch up on my reading – which is how I came across that article," she demurred.

Sho grinned. "A little light reading, eh?" he looked at Sandra. "What kind of coffee shop do you two run?" he teased. "One barista with a Masters in Econ, and the other with a… what? Doctorate?"

Beverly managed a nod.

"A doctorate in virology?" he laughed. "Best educated coffeeshop in the Fox Valley!"

"It pays the bills, Sho," Sandra said quietly.

"Yeah, well, it says something about the economy if you two are reduced to that," he sighed. "And to answer your question, Beverly, no, I'm not related to either of them – and," he added, "though, yes, I have read the article – but it's way out of date."

Beverly sighed. "I know – but I'm limited to reading what I can get online."

"I know where you're coming from," he sighed in agreement. "What's online seems to be closely guarded by the universities and the researchers – unless, of course, you're at a university." He looked at her for a moment. "Out of curiosity, why were you reading that article?"

Beverly glanced at Picard uncertainly, then turned back to Sho. "Trying to keep my hand in the field," she said uncomfortably.

Gy interrupted. "Don't get the wrong idea, Sho; John and Beverly were in the military and they're having problems getting the documentation transferred to their new civilian status."

"Dude," Sho murmured understandingly, then looked at the two, repeating, "Dude. Well, sorry I can't help with that, Beverly – but anytime you want to come down to the university, I'd be happy to let you borrow my ID and use the library. We've got rights with most of the universities around the world; if it's in their system, you can read it. "

Beverly's eyes widened. "I'd really like that, Sho."

Surprised by then sincere enthusiasm in her voice, he added, "Hey, why don't you come down this week? The semester started last week, so the library is still pretty quiet; I can show you around the place… Maybe a trip to my lab?" he added, almost hopefully. "I wouldn't mind bouncing my thesis off another doctor."

"I'd be honored," Beverly replied sincerely.

"Great. Why don't we figure out the when and where before we leave for the day – and Sandie can get you set up with train schedules…"

"I can drive," Beverly began.

Sho shook his head. "You don't want to drive."

Sandra nodded in agreement. "Sho's right; you really don't want to drive. It's not a bad neighborhood, but it's a long trip, and there's no parking… and the train is nearby. Don't worry, Bev; we'll get you down there and back," she added reassuringly.

Distracted by the ticket-taker at the gate, she turned away, and Beverly turned to look at Picard – who smiled at her. "Access to a real library," she said excitedly.

"And to someone who might be able to put you in touch with other researchers," he pointed out.

The smile that lit her face shone into the depths of his soul: this, he thought, was what he loved about her – or at least, he thought, one of the many, many things he loved about her: her passion for her work. Her eyes flashing with excitement, he could almost see the hundred of possibilities and ideas that were flying through her mind, and he could almost feel her giddy delight.

Elated for her, he reached for her hand, letting her turn their tickets over to the gatekeeper, then happily following her onto the fair grounds.

Jean-Luc took the napkin and delicately brushed a corner of it at the tip of Beverly's nose.

Startled, she looked up at him.

"Sugar," he explained.

Beverly nodded. "I think I'm beginning to understand the obesity problem in this culture," she sighed. "Maybe it's me, but fried dough, covered in sugar and covered with that sweet goo is just too much."

Taken aback by the overwhelming sweetness of the dessert, she had taken a few bites to be polite to Sandra, then, when the woman had wandered away, quickly disposed of the fried pie, only to find her fingers and face covered with sticky sugar crystals – some of which she had clearly missed when she tried to clean her hands.

"Why don't you go wash your hands – and face," Jean-Luc said, "and I'll find some more suitable for our breakfast? That is if you're still hungry," he added.

She smiled. "In all the years you've known me, Jean-Luc, have I ever _not_ been hungry?" she asked.

He smiled back, then, with an all but unnoticeable look around them, kissed her – then pulled away, licking his lips. "You may not have liked that pippin, but it's delicious on you," he teased.

Beverly laughed. "Oh, if the crew could see you now – or hear you – they'd never believe you were the same man. What happened to our dour, stern captain?" she asked.

He moved closer, taking her hand in his. "He found out that there were other things in life besides being the captain of a starship," he said, then moved closer to kiss her once more.

"Ah!" a loud voice interrupted. "My lord, what say you to a song for your lady fair?"

Startled, they pulled apart, turning to face the intruder.

A man, tall and barrel-chested, stood before them with an antique lute – or a modern replica or one – smiling hopefully.

"A song for your lady, my lord?" he repeated.

Beverly smiled politely, knowing that Jean-Luc would turn the would-be troubadour away – and was stunned when her husband replied, "Yes. Yes, I think she deserves a song."

"And the lady's name?"

"Beverly."

The troubadour thought for a moment, then looked at Picard. "And yours, sir?"

"John."

"Jean-Luc," Beverly corrected.

"Jean-Luc," he murmured. "Jean-Luc and Beverly...?"

"Picard," Jean-Luc added.

"Picard," he nodded. "And you've been married for…"

The two looked at each other, grinning. "Two months," they relied in unison.

The singer hesitated another moment, taken aback by the news; he preferred finding older couples to sing for, knowing that he could use some of his standard lines with simple substitutions and still earn a generous tip – but neither of their names fit any of his standard rhymes – and their newlywed status was going to require some quick thinking.

Still, they looked fairly well-to-do: older, more mature, him balding, her starting to get a little thick around the waist…

She was just getting a little chunky – right? he thought to himself, then sighed as the truth settled into his mind.

"And when is the young lord – or lady – due?" he asked quietly.

Beverly turned her gaze from her husband to her waist and placed a protective hand over the swelling there. "January," she admitted happily.

The singer thought for a moment – then broke into a rather rollicking rhythm on the instrument.

"Oh, Jean-Luc loved his lady fair,

Beverly of the auburn hair,

He loved her most rightly

And most often nightly

And soon his heir she will bear!"

A small audience had gathered around the singer and erupted in laughter at the last line.

Appalled, Picard started to pull back, but Beverly grabbed his arm, keeping him with her as the singer added a brief "hey-nonny-nonny" chorus, encouraging the audience to join in.

"You wanted him to sing to me," she reminded him as the others sang.

"I wanted a love song," he countered.

The singer broke into a new verse. "Beverly and her sweet Jean-Luc,

His offers she never rebuked.

He was her proud steed

Who filled all her needs

And now he is thoroughly hooked!"

It was Beverly's turn to redden, especially as the swelling crowd sand the chorus once more, louder this time.

Two more verses quickly followed, each one growing increasingly ribald, and the audience roaring at each one. Finally, the singer slowed the beat of the music, turning his attention directly to the couple.

"The path of true love is straight – and hard!" he sang to the audience's delight.

"For the parents of the newest Picard.

May this child be as blessed

As was his parent's love quest

And may their joy as a family never be marred!"

The audience echoed the last line, then roared their approval.

The singer grinned, pulling off his cap and bowing low, then proffering the cap to the departing crowd. Ample coins and bills were tossed into the hat as the audience wandered away, then the troubadour turned back to the couple and bowed to them.

"Joy to you, my lady, my lord," he said. "Enjoy the faire!"

Picard reached for his wallet; despite the way the song had come out, he knew that a donation to the singer was required.

To his surprise, though, the man waved off the attempt. "No. I really should be paying you two; I haven't made that much money for a single song all season. And all jokes aside, congratulations, folks. I hope everything goes well for the three of you!"

"Thank you," Beverly said.

"Indeed," Jean-Luc agreed, then removed a bill from his wallet and pressed it into man's hand. "But next year…"

"Next year, it'll all be about changing diapers and never getting any time together!" the singer chuckled, taking the money, and eyeing the crowd for his next mark.

Picard returned his wallet to his pocket, then looked at Beverly. "Next year, let's just stay home," he said pleadingly.

She laughed, then took his arm. "As you wish, my lord. Now, can we get some breakfast?"

Sunburned and exhausted, Beverly slowly made her way up the narrow staircase to their apartment, her steps made awkward by the long hem of the dress, then stood in the air-conditioned room, eyeing the bed longingly.

Pushing temptation back, she turned to face her husband as he made his way up the last two stairs, then chuckled as she watched him set down the half dozen bags he carried.

"So much for our 'we don't need material possessions' speeches," she laughed.

He harrumphed at her. "Excuse me? You're the one who bought those shirts," he pointed out.

"I bought them for you," she replied – then moved closer to him, one finger delicately pressing against the small expanse of bare chest made visible by the opening of the shirt. "After all, you do look incredibly sexy in this one – but you have to give it back to Gy.

"And, you must admit, the hat did come in handy," she added. "It's bad enough that I got my nose sunburned; a sunburned scalp would be miserable. And it does look good on you. Almost as good as your Dixon Hill hat," she purred, running the finger down the front of his shirt. "Maybe you can leave it on," she purred.

"You are insatiable, Beverly Picard," he replied, grinning.

"Are you complaining?" she answered.

Laughing, he pulled her into his arms, kissed her – then slowly and without breaking the kiss, walked her backwards toward their bed. Falling onto its comfortable surface, they kissed a moment longer – then Beverly pulled back, chuckling.

Picard looked at her, curious.

"A year ago," she explained, "you would have been mortified – either by Sho assuming that we did nothing at night – or by the singer, assuming we did nothing else at night," she pointed out.

"I would have been mortified not by the assumptions, Beverly, but by having them voiced so publicly," he countered. "A captain's personal life is no one's business but his own."

"But you're not a captain here," she pointed out.

"Even so…"

"Well, I think we can assume that not too many people are going to break into spontaneous song about my… what was it? Knight in shining armor?"

"It was the knight who _forgot_ his armor," he reminded her with a shake of his head.

"Yes," she smiled. "Though I think the comparison to the jousting was rather apt. You are, after all, quite skilled with that lance of yours."

He lay back on the pillows, one arm behind his head, and Beverly nestled her head against his other shoulder. "But…"

He looked down at her. "What is it, Beverly?"

"I feel sorry for these people," she said softly. "That they need to find other pastimes to spend their nights – watching television, or movies, or going to bars and drinking – when they could spend the time in good conversation, or reading, or studying…?"

"Or making love?" he offered.

"…or making love?" she agreed.

He sighed, then shook his head. "No, you shouldn't feel sorry for them. We're the exception, Beverly – not just here, but in our own time as well. Life on board a ship forced us to put a greater reliance on finding enjoyment within ourselves, and within those around us; books, plays, music, education – all these things were the entertainment to which we had access – and that became our norm. If we had had television or movies or something along those lines, we probably would have adopted them into our lives as readily as they have here. But we got used to what we had – and I'm not particularly interested in changing my ways. Unless, of course, you'd rather watch a movie?" he added.

She gave him a look of pure innocence. "Rather watch a movie… than do what?" she teased.

He rolled to face her, sliding one arm behind her and pulling her close to him. "Perhaps a little… jousting?"

Laughing, she reached for the front of his shirt, carefully pulling it free from him – then looked at his bare chest and sighed. "You realize that we're not going to be able to do this much longer," she said.

He blanched. "Beverly, is something wrong? Are you all right? The baby?"

Moving to straddle him, she pulled her dress over her head, then placed one hand on her belly. "We're fine, Jean-Luc – but Junior's going to be getting in the way shortly. Making love face to face is going to be difficult."

He nodded, then half sat up, his hands reaching to her face, pulling her close and kissing her. "I assure you, my dear doctor, my reputation as negotiator was well-earned; I am quite capable of finding creative solutions to any problem. However," he sighed, falling back to the bed, pulling her down with him, "I do like to see your face when we are making love."

"Oh?"

He smiled tenderly. "I do. It's been months, Beverly, but there are times I still cannot believe that you are really in my bed – our bed – and that we are making love together. You were in my heart – and my fantasies - for so many years that sometimes I still cannot quite believe that this is real: that you are here, and that we are… together. Seeing your face when we make love… It makes it real for me, Beverly; it means my fantasies – my dreams, my greatest hopes and desires - are reality."

She met his gaze, then gently caressed his face. "It is real," she agreed. "For all its shortcomings, it is real – and I don't know that I would want it any other way."


	45. Chapter 45

October 12

What a difference a few weeks made, Picard thought as he stood before the mirror; he straightened his tie, adjusted the collar on his crisp white shirt, then pulled on the suit coat.

Even that wouldn't be enough against the chill air of the fall morning, he thought as he reached for his trench coat and hat.

He scrutinized his image once again, doublechecking his appearance – then chuckled. It was a good thing that Beverly wasn't here, he thought to himself. Given how she had compared the outfit to that of one of his Dixon hill holodeck mysteries – and how she had demonstrated her long-withheld appreciation of that original costume – it was highly unlikely that he would be able to get out of the apartment on time, let alone make it to his appointment with Gy.

Gy, he sighed, letting his thoughts travel back to his employer and friend. Though the man's mood had grown less angry in the weeks since their talk at the Renaissance Faire, he had also grown more distant and introspective; indeed, he had begged off teaching on more than one occasion of late, forcing Jean-Luc to scramble to make sure that the students were being properly taught and that their studies were as comprehensive as they had been when there had been two teachers in the classroom.

There had been a good side to the absences, he admitted; obliged to deal with the students and the parents on his own, he had lost any remaining trace of uncertainty in his abilities, both as a teacher and as a businessman. On the negative side, he had quickly realized that if Gy wasn't going to be at the classes, he was going to have to find an assistant – and quickly – if the school as going to continue as it was.

Beverly could still be called on to help out with some of the classes, especially with the younger students who needed more reigning in than they did intensive training – but that was not something he could count upon in the near future. Their growing child - and her hours running the coffeeshop and working with Sho Imahara on his doctoral thesis – simply left her too tired, too often – something that was only going to get worse for the next few months.

And Fred was no longer a resource he could count upon, he added. To his – and everyone's delight – the young man had been granted a partial scholarship at a nearby university to work on his bachelor's degree – and Gy had matched the funds, meaning that Fred's hours working with Gy would more than cover his living expenses, leaving his remaining free time to be used for studying. With the consent of the judge who was overseeing the young man's probation, Fred had withdrawn from the martial arts classes.

Which left… who? he asked himself. Pat certainly could teach – and had stepped in on a few occasions – but her brush with death had convinced her that she should also spend a fair amount time savoring her life – which she and Ralph were doing joyously.

Most of the students were too young to work as helpers – which left the parents, he told himself. If Gy didn't start to shoulder his share of the load – and soon – he was going to have to go to have to approach one of them about volunteering.

Or perhaps not volunteering, he considered. Maybe bartering lessons for time as a teacher? Certainly it would reduce the financial burden from one of the family's who were pressed for funds – but it would also reduce the amount the school brought in…

As though that were a problem, he admitted. He and Beverly had spent part of the last week reviewing their finances – and had been surprised to find out that the school, which had been teetering on the brink of disaster when he had first started teaching was now in good stead with the bank and the creditors.

Which it was going to have to be, he thought; the costs of raising a baby was something that both he and Beverly had considered – but until recently, neither of them had realized there was a cost to having the baby as well.

Lacking insurance, the hospital had informed them that had to make a substantial deposit against the expected cost of the delivery – an amount which seemed astronomical. It seemed doubly so when the midwife that Beverly had been referred to also required a similar payment. Pat had instantly offered to give them the money, but they had declined the offer – but had accepted the possibility of taking a loan from her. Now, after looking at the school's financial position, he realized he would take a loan from the school – with Gy's permission and agreement, of course – and repay that instead.

Still, given the man's pensive moods, he was not looking forward to bringing up that topic – but time was pressing, he reminded himself.

"Yo! John" Gy's voice carried from the main floor of the school.

"Be down in a moment," Picard replied, adjusting his tie once more, deciding that while the piece of silk at his neck was as annoying as his uniform dress dollar, at least this one didn't scratch - then pulled on the trenchcoat, the hat in his hand.

Hurrying down the apartment stairs, he locked the door behind him, momentarily hesitating as he tried to remember if Beverly had taken her keys that morning, wishing that doors in this time had sensors and annunciators that obviated the need for these antique safeguards – then pushed the rumination aside. He had, he reminded himself, other, more important things to consider right now.

Grabbing a sheaf of papers from the desk in the small office, he pulled on the coat, slid the papers into his pocket and followed Gy out of the school.

A bitter wind cut across the street, slapping at the two men as they walked around the building to the parking lot.

"Do you mind driving?" Gy asked, moving toward the car that, while technically still his, had been used solely by Jean-Luc and Beverly since they had earned their drivers' licenses. "I want to look over the lease once more," he said.

Picard nodded, not wanting to shout against the cold wind; a six month lease, he thought as he handed over the documents, allowing them to operate the school out a temporary location while Gy began the renovations needed for them to expand the school for their ever growing student population.

Sliding into his seat, he quickly adjusted the seat and mirror to fit him, pulled the seat belt across his chest, reviewed the console, then reached for the ignition.

And stopped as Gy let loose a low chuckle.

He gave him an inquisitive stare.

"You're a born pilot, John," he explained. "I've known a dozen guys who fly – and they're all just like you. Meticulous, detail oriented – they check everything out and make sure it's right before they start the engine. Doesn't matter if it's a car or a plane or a pan of scrambled eggs– they always do things by the book."

Picard shook his head, but smiled all the same. "I don't know if I'd go that far, Gy," he said. "A good pilot - a really good pilot - needs to be able to go beyond the book as the situation merits."

"And we're you a good pilot?"

Picard smiled. "I… had my moments," he conceded.

"Meaning yes," Gy concluded. "You're not good at keeping you light under a bushel, you know. And you shouldn't," he added quietly.

Jean-Luc reached for the ignition once again – then stopped. He turned to face the man seated beside him.

"You shouldn't try to hide things either, Gy," he said quietly.

Gy raised his brow at him in question.

"There's something you've been avoiding discussing," Picard continued. "Something that's been keeping you away from the school for the last few weeks. If it's none of my business, then tell me so – but if it is…"

Gy laughed, almost derisively – then shook it off. "Not your business," he repeated – though whether he was simply repeating the man's words or agreeing with them, Picard wasn't sure.

"Gy…"

The man put out an upraised hand. "No, you're right – it's not your business." He shook his head. "I didn't realize it. I thought…" He stopped, sighed, then began again. "John, when you first started teaching, I knew that it was just a stopgap for you – that you and Beverly would stay on until you got your bearings – then head out again. I have to admit I was okay with that; not that I didn't like the two of you – I did, I do! – but I understood that whatever circumstances brought you here, they were temporary.

"The things is… you're a hell of a teacher. The kids love you. The parents love you. You're making the school everything that I wanted it to be…"

Thinking he understood the root of the young man's frustrations, Picard shook his head. "It's your school, Gy; whatever it has become is through your efforts…"

Gy nodded. "My efforts – and Ma's – until you got here. Nine years, John, we put into that school, both of us working two jobs to make sure that it could stay open, neither of us taking a paycheck for years – then finally getting a few dollars a month here or there… then the bridge project, and the road was closed for two years, then the economy craps out, and we're only starting to rebuild when you step in – and suddenly everything's going great!" he said. "But not because of what we did – because of your work, because of you, and how the parents love you and the kids love you…" his voice trailed off.

Startled by Gy's obvious resentment, Picard pulled back. "Gy, I'm sorry; I didn't realize..."

"Of course you didn't 'realize'!" he snapped back – then stopped once again. "You didn't realize because it's not your school; it's mine and you work for me… I thought we were friends in this together," he sighed, then faced Picard once again. "John… when we talked at the faire – and you told me that you consider me your employer – I was really hurt by that. I thought that we were friends," he admitted.

Picard studied the man's face for a moment, stunned by the revelation – then nodded. "Then allow me to apologize. I… I have had many friends over the years, Gy. During my years at the Academy, I met many people whom I came to consider as my friends – but as time passed, many of those friendships weakened as time and events pulled us apart – and I realize that those who I viewed as 'friends' were little more than acquaintances, people with whom I could share pleasant moments, but little more. The few people with whom I did have a greater bond, I held dear – but as time passed, many of them died, and I found myself less and less willing to open myself to a relationship of that nature – but at the same time, I knew that my value of the word 'friend' was such that I would not impose it upon anyone else. To do so was arrogance of the grossest kind – and as much as I had come to value your kindness, your generosity, your guidance – it was not my place to assume that you considered me a 'friend'."

He hesitated, then continued. "I'll admit that I, too, have been thinking about our discussion since that day – and to discover that you consider me to be your friend… I'm honored, Gy," Picard said quietly.

Gy looked at him, then let out a long sigh. "Yeah, I thought you'd say something noble like that," he said. "Then I thought: well, if the school hasn't been an overwhelming success, maybe it's because Ma and me have been working two jobs to keep the place afloat – and you could dedicate yourself to it, where we couldn't. And you did. And I was jealous of that." He sighed. "Some 'friend' I am."

Picard allowed himself a smile. "I think that friendship allows some personal foibles, Gy."

"Well, it needs to do a little more than that, John," Gy said.

Picard raised a brow at the remark, hearing the ominous undertone in Gy's voice.

"Oh?"

Gy hesitated, then blurted out, "I'm selling the building. The guys from the graphic arts shop downstairs approached me about expanding their business into our space – and they named a price I couldn't refuse," he concluded.

Picard blanched.

Selling the building? That meant… closing the school.

The end of his job.

The end of his income.

The end of their apartment.

He felt his heart begin to race.

How was he going to take care of Beverly? Their child?

How were they going to survive?

"And the school?" he managed a moment later.

Gy hesitated again. "I'll be honest, John – I've been thinking about this a lot lately – and I don't want to keep teaching. I know Cor and I weren't right for each other – but how much of that disaster was because I was never available to be with her? I mean, we would never have worked out – but what if she had been someone else – someone who I could have really loved – except that I spend five days a week from dawn to dusk working, then four nights a week and every weekend at the school? No. I think it's time to let go of that fantasy – Master Gy Edrickson – and try to have a life of my own. One job is enough."

Picard felt his stomach turn.

"And the lease?" he asked with as much aplomb as he could muster.

"It's short term. Six months. It allows those who have longer contracts or prepaid to get through the balance of what they've given us – and it gets us out of the building while the graphics guys get the inspections and valuations done," he explained.

Picard nodded, then allowed himself a shallow breath. Six months. Enough time for Beverly to have the baby and go back to the coffeeshop… And then what? Live then on her income? Or was there enough time for him to find another job? he added worriedly.

In this world.

At his age.

Not for the first time in this universe, he found his experience – his years of work – being more of a hindrance than a benefit. His knowledge meant nothing, he thought; all that potential employers here could see would be the number of his years.

"And then anyone who wants to re-up can do so with your school," Gy continued.

Picard blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Gy smiled. "I'm selling the school… to you. If you want it. You're going to have to pay for it, of course – though we can work out a payment schedule. You can negotiate with the River Road guys to stay on there – or we could look at a new site and renovate it. You'll want to hire your ex-boss as your contractor, of course," he added with a grin.

"Of course," Picard said automatically, the words still not completely registering.

My school, he thought to himself – though he found no sense of pride in the idea. There was, however, an overwhelming sense of relief: a job, an income – a way to support himself and his family… The relief swelled, threatening to overpower him, though with the sensation came a second one – one of realization that back in their world, while the idea of losing a position carried a certain emotional weight, it was not the same as here. Here that loss meant so much more – a loss that threatened not only one's income, but security.

Not for the first time, he began to understand the emotions of the people he saw every day; of their desperate need to do what they must to provide for themselves and their families – and the depths to which they would go to ensure those needs.

Fred had been willing to steal to feed himself, to clothe himself; he'd been willing to pull a knife on Beverly – and while he might not have had the level of desperation and terror needed to use that knife, others did.

So many others.

Seeing the still unresponsive face of the older man, Gy chuckled. "Man, no wonder Beverly loves to tease you; you just put it all out there sometimes. I'd love to play poker with you; I could use the extra money."

Picard stirred himself back to the present, then raised a brow. "Indeed," he said blandly.

Gy made a plaintive sound. "Oooh, I guessed wrong on that one. You're a card sharp, eh?"

"I've been known to hold my own at the table," he demurred.

"We'll see about that – one day. For today, let's go sign these papers, then start working out a timetable for moving the school."

Picard reached for the ignition once more, starting the car, then suddenly turned to Gy once again. "The apartment," he realized.

Gy sighed. "You can't stay on after the sale, of course – but you wouldn't have wanted that anyway – it's too small for two people, let alone you and Beverly and the kid. But the sale won't go through until New Year's at the earliest. They've got to secure the funding, and that's going to take a little time. In any case, Ma's been looking for a new place for you two anyway; you couldn't have stayed on during the renovation even if we'd kept the place – asbestos in the tiles, maybe lead in the paint… not good for Beverly or the baby – or you. It's not a problem while it's in place – but as soon as we start the demo, it would have been in the air. For now, though, you two can stay there – easier for Beverly until she goes on maternity leave…"

"Maternity leave?"

Gy looked at the man, bemused. "When she takes off a few weeks before and after the baby comes," he explained. "Dude, where are you from? Even the military has maternity leave," he added quietly.

"They do," Picard agreed hastily. "But it has a different name."

"Yeah. Sure it does," Gy chuckled. "Well, whatever you call it back on your planet, the two of you can stay on in the apartment until the deal goes through – but it's not that far away: three months. It's not much time to find a place to live - and find some staff to help you out running the place."

To Gy's surprise, however, Picard smiled. "Actually, Gy, I was entertaining some thoughts along those lines…"


	46. Chapter 46

October 30 – Part 1

Her head resting on his shoulder, Beverly drew a deep breath. She loved the scent of him; not just when he was freshly bathed, his masculine odor clean and fresh, the faint trace of soap and after-shave touching her senses when she drew close to him, but even more so now, redolent of sex and sweat and work; here, in the intimacy of his arms, her senses filled with him, she felt sated, adored, cared for… loved.

She chuckled.

He moved slightly, lifting his head to kiss the side of her neck, the lay back on his pillow, his free hand moving up, crossing her belly, her chest, then coming to rest on her breast.

"You," she murmured as her racing heart began to slow its pace, "are… amazing."

Jean-Luc nuzzled her neck once more, his fingers idly stroking the soft mound. "You said I had to be… creative," he reminded her.

"Mmmm," she purred. "I like your 'creativity'."

"Again, then?" he asked softly as his hand drifted lower on her body.

Surprised, she answered, "So soon? You are amazing," she answered, only to hear his deep – and slightly embarrassed – chuckle in response.

"Umm, I'm not quite ready yet," he admitted. "But you…"

Beverly pulled away slightly, carefully maneuvering her body as she turned over, loathe to leave his embrace but aching to see his face. Settling back against his arm, she raised a hand to caress his face.

He caught the hand in his own, bring it to his lips, kissing it passionately – then smiling at her. "I love the smell of you – of us," he amended, breathing deeply as her fingers passed close to his nose.

She caressed his face once again, then ran her hand over his shoulder, across his chest, then allowing it to come to a rest at his waist. "I can wait for you," she offered.

"You needn't," he said.

Beverly leaned close, kissing him. "Thank you – but I'd rather we be together. I spent too many years fantasizing about you – about us - while I was alone…"

"Oh?" he teased.

Beverly smiled. "You know I did – as you did," she reminded him. "And while I love what you can do with your hands – and your mouth – I want all of you. I can wait," she assured him.

"Perhaps you should tell me about those fantasies," he answered, his voice deepening, becoming huskier. "In detail."

"That might take some time," she answered.

He released her hand, letting his graze down the length of her body in light, gentle strokes. "Were we in a hurry?"

She gasped at his touch, then nestled against him as closely as she could, her body shaking in mounting pleasure. "I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday," she replied. "We'll need to beg off from going to look at the houses that Pat found, though."

"She'll understand."

"Yes – and all too well," Beverly chuckled.

Realizing that Beverly was right, that Pat would quickly guess the reason, he pulled away, sighing plaintively.

Jean-Luc was long past the point of even trying to pretend to the woman that his sex life with Beverly was anything but the vibrant and invigorating part of their life that it was – but even so, he found himself uncomfortable in broadcasting that truth to Pat any more often than need be.

Capitulating to the inevitable, he pulled away, laying back against the pillows, his head resting in the cradle of his hands.

"We do need to find a new place to live," he admitted.

"Mmmm," she sighed in agreement, easing herself against him. "And you're right: the apartments that she's shown us are…" Beverly hesitated.

"Inhibiting," he concluded. "Worse than telling Pat we can't make it this afternoon."

She laughed softly. "If we could hear the neighbors talking, you can imagine what they would hear," she agreed.

"A house would give us more privacy," he said. He pushed himself up on one arm, looking at her. "We'd be able to spend our days…"

"…and nights…" Beverly added.

"…without concern of being overheard," he said, his hand returning to her body once more.

"Except for the baby," she reminded him.

He smiled, unperturbed by the idea. "Babies do sleep," he pointed out. "Rather a lot, if the books I've been reading are correct." His hand moved to the curve of her breast.

"They do," she agreed. "But so do new parents."

"Hmpf," he countered mildly as he moved to the swell of her belly. "Then perhaps we should take advantage of what time we have before he…"

"…she…"

"… joins us," he concluded, his fingers now tracing small circles on her thigh.

She looked into his eyes, smoldering now with hunger, then let her gaze drift lower, savoring the view of his body, smiling at the sight.

"You are," she sighed happily, "amazing."

"They're both asking twenty-three hundred a month," Pat grumbled as she pulled away from the second house. "I think we can talk them down; it's steep for the market," she said. "But you do have to be prepared for paying a little more than the going rates, since neither of you has a credit history; they'll want some security, given the economy. Don't let that be a stopper, though; Gy and I can co-sign for you, loan you a bigger downstroke…"

"That won't be necessary," Picard interrupted. "The houses were both… fine, but…" He looked at Beverly, seeing in her eyes the same things he had thought about the two homes.

"They're too big," Beverly explained. "We don't need that much space."

"But you will!" Pat protested. "Oh, you don't have any real furniture now – but once you get a real place of your own, you're gonna get more – and then some for the baby: a crib, a dresser, a changing table…"

Beverly cringed invisibly. For all she loved this world and this time, they were still too focused on possessions, on material goods. She had raised Wesley in the small apartment she and Jack had shared, and only the basics for all of them – and they had done well enough. "Pat," she protested gently, "for centuries families have survived without buying all of those things. I had a crib for Wes, of course, but I kept his clothes, blankets – everything he needed - with Jack's and mine."

"I had all of those things when I was a child," Picard mused quietly. "A cradle, a crib – then a bed - and bureaus and an armoire, a desk and a chair."

Beverly slapped his arm. "You're not helping me," she complained.

Startled, he realized what he had said; he flashed her an apologetic smile. "I didn't mean that," he said. "The furniture – the cradle, the dressers – everything I had was handed down for years; if Maman had even suggested that Father should get furniture for just for us as babies, he would have been outraged. No; everything was handed down – if not from older children, then from our cousins and other family – and passed on when we were through with it."

"Well, that was then; this is now," Pat protested. "And even if you do get only the basics, you're still going to need space! Once the baby starts crawling…"

"Pat," Jean-Luc interrupted, "that will be months from now – maybe a year?" he added, uncertainly, glancing at Beverly for confirmation; though he had been reading about infants and their development, it was still all a bit of a mystery to him.

She nodded, smiling at his innocence in the matter, loving him for his attempts to prepare himself for all that was to come – though, she added silently, there would be no teacher better than the experience of raising a child. "Somewhere around there," she agreed, then turned her attention back to their friend. "But for now, Pat, a small home is more than we need – and all we can afford, to be honest. Even if enrollment stays as it is – and there's no guarantee of that - it'll be at least a year before John's paid Gy back for the school – and probably another year before we can justify spending much on a home," she said.

"Hardly," Pat answered. "I know the school's finances – even with the new lease over on River Road – and I know what kind of teacher John is. And you'll earn your portion on the shop, Beverly, even while you're on leave. No, money isn't going to be a problem for you two for very long."

Beverly looked at her husband; Pat was right, she knew. Despite his occasional bouts of uncertainty about his abilities as a teacher and businessman, Jean-Luc's determination to be both a good husband and father had overcome his fears. But even so, and even with her income from the coffeeshop, they were both all too well of the nature of the turbulent economy of this world; renting a house that exceeded their wallets and their immediate needs was an unwise expense that neither of them wanted to undertake. "Pat," she said quietly, "we just don't need that much space. More than that, though…" Beverly hesitated, looking at Jean-Luc, searching for support.

"Those homes were a little ostentatious," he explained, "and the communities are a little… new."

To their surprise, however, Pat seemed less than offended by their revelations; rather, she smiled. "Glad to hear that, loves; I was hoping that I'd read you better than that – but new money – and that's what you two are going to be soon enough – new money tends to want to go into those mini-mansion monstrosities and those gated communities.

"So what is it you two want in your home?" she pressed, glancing away from the road for a moment to look at the two.

"Something small," Beverly said quickly. "Something for raising a family. Do you remember Nana's house?" she asked Jean-Luc, then hastily explained to Pat, "My grandmother raised me after my parents died."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear! I didn't know," Pat said.

Beverly nodded, quickly brushing away the sympathy. "It's all right, Pat; it was long ago, and I was quite young. After they died, Nana took me to live with her. Her home was little more than a cottage, but even though it was small, it was always warm and welcome. There was always room for family and friends – but even when it was just the two of us, it always felt as though it was just the right size."

"It sounds lovely, Beverly," Pat replied. "And you, John?"

Picard considered a bit longer. "My family home was quite large – for generations the Picard families were quite fecund – but only my parents, my older brother Robert and I lived there when I was growing up; we only used a small portion of the house. The kitchen was the focal point for most of our meals, where we studied, where we spent time with our mother…"

Pat nodded, listening carefully.

"And the great room… though the last time I went home, I was taken aback by how small that 'great' room had become," he added with a smile.

Pat chuckled. "It sounds as though you two are both better suited to life in the country than in the city," she commented.

Beverly sighed to herself, wishing such a thing were possible –but her work, her research at the university and Jean-Luc's new school made any idea of moving further away untenable. "It would be lovely – I always enjoyed helping Nana in the garden – but both John and I need to be near work; I need to be able to get downtown to work with Sho – and at some point, we're going to have to think about having a school – and Junior's friends - nearby."

"Well, it seems I've got some more work to do," Pat sighed a little wearily. "If you two don't mind, can we call it a day? I'd like to put supper on the table before it gets too late," she added, glancing at the lowering skies.

"Of course," Beverly said instantly, sending a worried glance at Jean-Luc. "Pat? Are you feeling all right?"

Jean-Luc added, "Would you rather I drive?"

Pat glanced at the two, forcing a smile. "Oh, don't mind me. It's the season. The days are growing shorter, it's getting colder…" She shivered against the imagined chill. "A big pot of vegetable soup and some fresh baked bread works wonders though," she sighed. "You two should stay for supper," she added.

Beverly shot a quick look at Jean-Luc, imperceptibly shaking her head against the idea. The necessity of needing to find a new home had forced them out of their bed – but it had done nothing to quench their hunger for each other; even the thought of Pat's vegetable soup and bread could not tempt her away from the idea of another indulgent bedroom romp with her husband – an idea Jean-Luc clearly shared, she thought, judging from the smoldering look in his eyes.

"Ummm…" Beverly began to demur.

Pat gave a hearty laugh. "Ah, so that's it. No problem, loves; come on up, and I'll send some home with you – and you can have it after. And I'll send home some of those cookies that you like so much, John – the ones with the ginger. They say the ginger helps kindle the fires, if you know what I mean," she chuckled, adding, "though judging from how late you two were this morning, I'm thinking that's not a problem!"

Jean-Luc reddened, and even Beverly turned away, uncomfortable.

Watching them in the rear view mirror, Pat gave a hearty laugh. "You two shouldn't be so embarrassed. Most people your age – our age – don't even remember what it's like to feel that way - let alone to do anything about it!" she added, chuckling. "If I was you two, I'd be shouting it from the rafters!"

"Another good reason for living in the country," Picard replied dryly.

Pat shot him a quick glance, surprised by his unexpected remark – then chuckled before growing sober. "I'll keep my eyes open, loves. But do come up and get some dinner; if nothing else, I've kept you out for the day – and I doubt either one of you wants to go do the shopping and the cooking. And vegetable soup is your favorite, dearie," she reminded Beverly. "You might be hungry just for John, here, but the baby needs something more."

Beverly sighed, knowing Pat was right, both about the baby and about her being less than interested in shopping and  
cooking that evening – but she also knew that a 'brief' stop at the Edrickson household almost always turned into a prolonged – if welcome – stay. Even this trip to look at the two houses should have only taken an hour – and yet here they were, returning to Pat's after losing almost the entire afternoon.

There was, however, no gracious way around it; their car was at the house and they had to retrieve it before they could return home.

Jean-Luc caught Beverly's eye, then looked at Pat. "Thank you, Pat."

"Don't worry," she promised from the driver's seat. "It'll only be a few minutes – and then you two can be on your way."


	47. Chapter 47

October 30 - part 2

Pat's remark about the evening growing dark early had been correct; by the time they reached the house, it was growing dim, long shadows lost in the gloom of the overcast sky.

The house too was dark; a faint light shone in the kitchen, but the rest of the home was dark, reflecting the gloom of the dark evening.

"Is Gy not home?" Jean-Luc asked, surprised.

Pat glanced at the front of the house, then shook her head in agreement. "Maybe he ran out to the store – or went out with friends. Good to see him getting out again," she added. "Glad he's getting over Cor."

Picard nodded in agreement. "Indeed. I hope he remembered to turn off the stove," he added.

"You mean for because of the soup?" Pat asked as she parked the car. "No worries there; it's in the crock pot, safe and sound. Should be ready to dish up and send home with you. Come on up and help yourselves," she added, getting out of the car and heading up to the front of the house, the keys jangling noisily in her hands.

Jean-Luc lagged behind, waiting to help Beverly out of the back seat of the car. "We're going to have to find a place soon," she wheezed. "I don't think I can get in and out of the car like this much longer."

"You still have a few months to go," he reminded her unnecessarily.

Beverly groaned, pressing her hands into the small of her back, arching it as far as she could. "As if I didn't know that," she muttered, then relented, reaching for his hands. "I'm sorry; that was uncalled for. But I don't think I'm going to be able to get into the back seat too many more times."

"Perhaps Pat can simply give us the addresses next time, and I'll drive us," he suggested.

"Lovely idea – but you know she's enjoying this far more than we are," Beverly pointed out. "She relishes playing the role of grandmother-to-be – which," she added, "she is. In a way." She arched her back once again, then took his hand and walked up the front steps to where Pat was still fumbling with the door key. "Gy and Pat are as close to family as we have here," she added quietly.

Picard nodded. "I was thinking about that as well," he said.

"Perhaps we should…"

Pat turned to look down the path at the two, interrupting the discussion. "Well? Are you coming or not?" she asked.

Beverly smiled. "Be there in a second," she said, then looked at her husband. "Let's get this over with; I want to get home and put my feet up."

He nodded his agreement, taking Beverly's hand in his as they walked up the path, wishing Pat had parked at the back of the house where she usually did, where the walk would have been shorter and not so steep.

It would have also put them right at the kitchen, he thought, shortening their stay, and making their exit faster and easier on Beverly.

And easier on Pat, he added with slowly – very slowly - dawning realization.

The full import of her actions, however, did not register until he reached the front door of the house, pushing it open for the two women, gesturing them inside – and the lights of the house blazed into full brilliance at their entrance.

A dozen – no, two dozen, they quickly realized – people, including Sandra, Gy and Ralph, along with some of the parents of students at the school and more than a few of Beverly's better customers, bounded into the room, now decorated with streamers and balloons in pastel shades of pink and blue, shouting and cheering as the three entered.

"Surprise!"

Pat stepped aside, turning to grin at the two. "So much for not having baby furniture," she gloated softly. "Well, come on in, Mom and Dad; this is your baby shower."

Beverly rocked back and forth in the white wicker rocking chair that had been one of the many gifts they had received; most had remained behind at Pat's, their apartment far too small to hold them all – and most being unneeded until after the baby was born. In time, they would be moved to their new home – as soon as they found one, she reminded herself.

Something else to work on tomorrow, Beverly sighed.

Pat had insisted, however, that the chair should go home with them this evening, claiming that Beverly could use it immediately – and to her surprised, Beverly had found the chair the perfect treatment for her aching body.

Well, she thought, one of two perfect treatments.

A groan of pleasure escaped her lips.

"Good?" Jean-Luc murmured as he looked up at her.

Beverly opened her eyes, looking at the foot rest where her husband now sat, cradling one of her feet in his hands, massaging it gently.

"You are amazing," she repeated, smiling.

Smiling, he gently pressed a knuckle into the small of her foot, pressing firmly against the aching tendons, ligaments and muscles, then lightened his touching, easing off on the pressure until his touch became feather light and delicate – and earning a second sigh in return.

"Enough?" he asked.

Beverly nodded again.

Rising carefully from the foot rest, he placed her feet back on the pillow-covered rest, then moved to the other piece of furniture that had come home with them after the hours-long party: a wooden cradle, carefully pieced together with flawless craftsmanship, adorned with exquisite carvings.

Picard studied the piece for a long time. "This is remarkable. It must have taken Gy… months," he said, still awed at the man's workmanship.

Beverly rose from the chair to join him, pulling a crocheted afghan from the back of the chair to wrap around herself against the chill of the night air. "It's the same pattern that's on the table he's showed us – the one you liked so much."  
Jean-Luc smiled. "It reminds me of some of the pieces from my home… Rather, from LaBarre," he corrected himself.

She smiled back, understanding him; this was home now.

"He did say he created it from some traditional patterns – with his own additions. He really is an incredible artist," she agreed. "Maybe now that he's giving up teaching, he'll be able to spend more time on his woodworking."

"Or maybe he'll just spend more time on his own life," Picard countered. "A man should not be defined solely by his work," he said.

Beverly looked at him in surprise. "So says Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the starship Enterprise?"

"No," he said, rising to his feet, taking her into his arms as he stared into her eyes. "So says Jean-Luc Picard, husband of Beverly Crusher Picard – who has discovered that there are some things that are more important than running a starship."

"Such as…?"

"Being a husband. Being a father. Raising a family… helping to raise a community. A country. A world. Stopping wars from starting so that his wife, his family, his community, his country – his world – can be safe, can survive, can be a better place," he told her.

Beverly shook her head, smiling. "But you did those things as captain as well, Jean-Luc," she reminded him.

He sighed. "In the abstract, yes," he agreed. "In compliance with the Prime Directive and the orders of Starfleet Command. Save this planet, negotiate that treaty… I know it was all real, all important – but what I do here, now… somehow, Beverly, this is different."

"Because it's your life, this time – your world."

"Yes – and because this time it is my wife and my child that I'm fighting to protect," he said, reaching for her hand, drawing her to him. "And that changes everything," he said. "To hell with the Prime Directive."

He tightened his embrace, holding her against him as close as he could – then pulled back so he could look at her, before drawing her into a kiss. "I love you, Beverly – and I will not see you, or our child, or this world plunged into that nightmare. Not if I can help it."

"That will change the future," she pointed out.

He looked at the cradle, staring at it intently, then turned to his wife. "A future, yes. But not ours. That we are here means that the timeline we lived is written – but this one is not."

He kissed her again, deeper this time, growing more intense, more passionate – then he turned away, taking her hand, guiding her back to their bed.


	48. Chapter 48

December 12

Deborah Migdahl smiled at her patient, gently moving the paper gown up to expose the woman's midriff even as a second paper drape covered her lower half. Removing a plastic coated measuring tape from her lab coat pocket, she held it in her hand for a moment, allowing it to warm before uncurling it.

With a practiced hand, she determined the reference points, measuring the growth of the mother's belly, and quickly extrapolating the information she needed from the measurement.

"The last months," she informed the woman and her worried-looking husband, "are spent on growth – and your baby's doing her job as well as can be expected," she reassured the two.

"Her growth?" Jean-Luc interrupted. "It's a girl, then?"

Deborah smiled. "Just a common practice in my field, Mr. Picard," she told him, charmed both by his naivete and his concern for his wife and child. "We always use feminine pronouns for fetuses. It makes up a bit for the practice of referring to people, in general, with male pronouns. Since an amniocentesis was not performed, and since the ultrasound showed no clear evidence of gender, it's still a matter of guesswork for all of us. We'll find out soon enough," she added.

"How soon?" Beverly asked calmly.

"I think we're still on track for mid-January. If you had a better idea of the date of conception…"

Beverly smiled, shaking her head. "I'm afraid not," she said.

Deborah looked back at her chart, trying desperately not to smile. Of course they didn't know, she thought to herself; the two of them seemed to be going at it like a pair of teenagers in love for the first time – and like a pair of teenagers, she reminded herself, they had quickly found themselves dealing with the consequences of those actions.

Not that she could blame either of them; despite his age – or maybe because of it – John Picard was an exceptionally attractive - and apparently exceptionally fit – man – and Beverly was a healthy woman with healthy sexual needs that her husband clearly could fulfill.

Good for both of you, she told them silently – though a little more circumspection seven months ago might help her in determining the conception date.

"In that case," she continued, her eyes locked on the chart until her grin could disappear, "based on your guesstimate of when you conceived, and the baby's growth to date, I think we can stay with our January 15 due date. I'm afraid there's little chance for a 2011 tax deduction," she added with a smile.

The two looked at her blankly, then both managed a forced chuckle at the joke that they clearly didn't understand.

Deborah sighed, wishing she had a little more background on the two – but knowing she had enough to fulfill her duties to her patients. They were healthy, fit – but a little odd, she concluded. Not as odd as she had first thought – but odd, nonetheless.

She had actually been concerned about the two at Beverly's first visit; her husband's interest in her pregnancy and her health had almost verged on the obssessive – and for a brief time, Deborah was concerned that their relationship might have been lopsided, with John controlling Beverly in some – or many - ways. But as she had watched the two together, she had begun to realize that it was anything but an unequal or possessive relationship; Beverly was strong in her own right, and her husband…

Her husband was loving, compassionate and utterly respectful of his partner.

She smiled at the memory of the first time she had guided his hand of his child's barely discernible form lying inside Beverly's womb, from the smooth curve of her head, over the shape of her rounded back, and the tiny delicacy of a foot.  
This was a man who had seen much of the world, she realized – but was nonetheless awed by the prospect of his still-forming child.

Beverly was a lucky woman, Deborah thought, and John was a fortunate man.

"We'll revise that date, if need be, at your visit next week, Beverly," she said, smoothly covering her momentary lapse in concentration.

"Next week?" Jean-Luc blurted out. "Is something wrong? We've been coming every two weeks…" he protested.

"And now that we're getting closer, it'll be every week," Beverly explained patiently. "Everything's all right, Jean-Luc," she said softly.

Deborah nodded her agreement of Beverly's remark. "Everything is all right; your blood pressure is well within norms – keep up with those walks and your diet! - and your last blood work was good – better than good. You and your baby are in remarkable health, Beverly – and if you were a little younger, or if you had had a child more recently, I wouldn't find any reason for you not to consider home birth. But it has been more than twenty years – and while I see no signs of fetal distress or any untoward complications on your side, I'd rather play it safe and have you deliver at the hospital. We have a lovely LDRP suite – but should any problems arise, you're seconds away from a surgical suite. Next time…"

"Next time?" he echoed once more.

Deborah tried not to smile. "If there is a next time," she amended, "we can think about a home birth."

Picard looked at his wife. "Next time?" he asked, dumbstruck at the idea.

"Something we can talk about later," she said.

"In the meantime, we should talk about birth control options for after your delivery," Deborah continued. "Breastfeeding is not an effective birth control method – and unless you want two in diapers at the same time, you're going to need to use some form of prevention. And not the rhythm method," she added. "You know what they call people who use the rhythm method for birth control, right?"

Beverly nodded, but Jean-Luc stared at her blankly. "No; what?"

She smiled. "They call them 'parents'," she explained.

He nodded soberly. "Oh, um… yes. I see."

Deborah held back another smile. "For the moment, I'd recommend a barrier method rather than hormones: condoms, of course, or an IUD or a diaphragm for you, Beverly… I don't recommend giving women your age birth control pills," she added worriedly. "Too many risks."

Placing the measuring tape back in her pocket, she chafed her hands together, warming them slightly, then placed a hand on Beverly's belly, carefully palpating it to determine the baby's position, then frowned slightly.

"Has she – or he," she hastily added, "been moving much?"

Beverly rolled her eyes. "That is an understatement. I haven't had a decent night's sleep all week. He's practicing his tap dancing every night, keeping me up."

Deborah allowed herself a relieved smile. "She's not moved into position yet – or if she has, she's moved back out - but if she's still turning often, that's not surprise. In a few more weeks, she should turn head down in preparation for birth. Right now she's in a breech position – lying sideways – which would make a vaginal birth impossible. We'll keep an eye on that over the next few weeks; if she doesn't turn, we'll do a C-section. It's not my first choice, of course; childbirth is a natural and healthy process and I don't like turning to surgery as a routine alternative. But if the time approaches and we don't see any changes, we can prepare for it."

She pulled the paper gown back over Beverly's abdomen, then smiled at her patient. "You can get dressed, Beverly, and in the meantime, John, I'd like to talk to you outside," she said, nodding at the door.

Instantly worried, Picard followed the middle-aged woman outside the room. "What is it? Is something wrong with Beverly? With the baby?" he asked anxiously.

Deborah stared at the man for a moment, touched by his genuine concern for his wife and child – but equally surprised by the question. "Mr. Picard, I don't keep medical information about my patient's conditions from them!" she said, astounded.

"Oh! I thought…"

She lay a hand on his arm. "My first responsibility is to your wife and your child, and were there any issues, I would talk to Beverly first, and then to you – or, if she prefers to the two of you together. But I do have other responsibilities – and one is to my community. I understand you just opened a new martial arts school?"

"It's the same school, just in a new location," he replied.

"Well, we had a mugging in the parking lot last week, and some of the nurses and staff are a little concerned. I was hoping you might consider offering a self-defense class for the staff," she said. "Just the basics – what to look for, how to defend yourself – that sort of thing," she explained.

Picard hesitated for a moment, taken unaware by the question. "I read about the mugging in the paper – but I thought they had caught the man."

"They did, but the matter remains that we really don't have any protection from the time we leave the building until we reach our cars. We were hoping…"

He sighed, then shook his head. "I would really like to help out, Ms. Migdahl – but I'm short staffed as it is. Every night has more students than I can handle…"

She smiled. "Actually, we were hoping you might be willing to teach an afternoon class – and maybe one in the morning? We have about fifty people who are interested – and if works out here, there are other hospitals in the area that would be interested as well. Would you be able to help us? We'd pay! Twenty dollars a person for each class," she added.

Twenty dollars, he thought – that was an additional thousand a month – and exposure to fifty new families! And if the program was successful and other hospitals joined… He drew a deep breath, nodding.

"I think we can work something out," he agreed.

Deborah sighed in relief. "Thank you. We really appreciate it. I've got your home number; I'll talk with the administrator today and see if we can make arrangements to start this before the holidays. Thank you again, Mr. Picard!" she said exuberantly.

He nodded as she walked away, the idea still rolling through his mind.

Fifty new students – although they wouldn't be martial arts students – but fifty new people even so...

He was still lost in his reverie when Beverly left the examination room a few minutes later, adjusting the gathers on her maternity shirt – the only one she had deigned to purchase, deeming it an unnecessary expense when she could as easily wear his shirts.

"Everything all right?" she asked, reading the man's expression.

"Yes… no," he amended – then smiled. "I will admit to more than a little relief in seeing that Ms. Migdahl's assessment matches yours and the tricorder's, Beverly; I'm a little less hesitant to trust in the medicine of this time."

Beverly smiled. "It's not as though we have much choice, Jean-Luc; if we're having the baby at the hospital, we have to go through all these visits – but I am relieved that she agrees with me about the preference for natural approaches toward childbirth. Not that I'm keen on doing this without the medications available to us," she added.

"We'll bring them with us," he pointed out.

"I'd like to think I'm a little tougher than that, Jean-Luc," she said. "Women have had babies without pain relief for centuries…"

"And they have suffered," he countered. "It's not something I want to see you go through, Beverly."

She chuckled, "Well, we'll see. But if it gets to be too much for you, you let me know," she told him softly, reaching a hand to his face, caressing it, then drawing it to her for a tender kiss. "But I think that the merits of epidural anaesthetics versus natural childbirth is not what's putting those lines on your face – handsome though it is."

He frowned a moment, then reached a hand to his forehead, then lowered it realizing she was teasing him once again. "Let's talk… outside," he said.

She nodded, agreeing that this conversation was better suited for a more private place.

As had become their habit, they walked in silence to the receptionist's desk, stopping to make the next appointment, then made their way into the chill afternoon air.

"So talk to me, Jean-Luc," she said once they were clear of the building. "You said 'yes' and 'no'. yes and no to what?"

"Yes – Deborah asked me to teach a self-defense class at the hospital for the staff – there was a mugging in the parking lot - and maybe at other hospitals in the future," he said.

Beverly smiled. "That's wonderful, Jean-Luc!" she exclaimed, clapping him on the arm. "So what is the problem?"

He looked at her with a sober expression. "I agreed, Beverly – but not because it was for the good of the community or even the staff here – which it is – but my first reaction was the thought, 'A thousand dollars a class!' " he said, then let out a sigh. "It's one thing to fit in here – but it's quite another to find one's self reduced to such base capitalism, and so quickly. I'm not very proud of myself for that."

She wrapped her other hand over the first, pulling herself against him. "It's not our world, Jean-Luc; money is the medium of exchange here – and like it or not, we have to think that way, at least to some degree."

"I know – but I don't like it – and I don't like finding myself degraded to that level," he replied unhappily, even a bit angrily.  
"You share your knowledge with Sho without charging him for it," he pointed out.

"Sho doesn't have any money – and virology researchers do not make much even when they have degrees. But what are the alternatives?" Beverly asked – though he could tell from the tone of her voice that the question wasn't meant to be conclusive, but rather to guide him in an exploration of the topic.

He met her gaze, smiling. My God, how I love you for that, he thought; your brilliance, your insight, your perspicacity. "I could offer the classes for free," he replied, beginning the discussion.

She nodded. "You could – but we've already learned that people here don't value things that are given for free. How many times have you given new students a free month of classes – and they don't show up or stop after one or two sessions?"

He sighed, conceding the point. "I realize that, but perpetuating a bad practice doesn't change it, Beverly. And if we're going to help make this world a better place, we can only start by changing what we can – and that starts with us. You've know our financial position; between our two incomes, we have all that we need."

"For now," she reminded him. "Education in this world is expensive; Junior is going to want to go to college…"

"Providing colleges still exist when he grows up."

"Then we'll make sure they do," she pointed out. "If free classes don't engender value, then charge them… something," she urged, "but make the fee something that benefits others a well."

He met he gaze. "Such as…?"

"You tell me. What can they give – what of value can they give – that would make them feel they've earned a class, but helps others as well?" she posed.

Picard considered. "A donation of food."

"A good start. There's a food bank in Batavia; I'm sure they'd accept it. What else?"

"Contribute some hours at their child's school. Volunteer at the library, or the hospital, help out with the suicide prevention fundraiser."

"I like that one. What about donating blood?"

Picard glanced at her. "Do they still do that?"

"Artificial blood has not yet been developed, despite years of work. It's a decade away – and it comes about because of the war." She gave a sigh of regret. "For all we decry the war – for all the damage it does, it does bring about some changes in science – and in the world. Without the war, Zephram Cochrane does not build the Phoenix," she reminded him.

He nodded. "Another project to add to the list," he muttered – though Beverly wasn't sure if he were serious or not.

"There are dozens of possibilities, Jean-Luc. Let them decide what they are going to do – but tell them they have to do something for the community in exchange for the classes," she suggested.

He raised a brow at the idea, letting it play through his mind. "Give up an hour of electricity. Take the bus…"

Beverly smiled as she watched the possibilities take hold in his mind. "You know, you could send an e-mail to the other martial arts schools in the area and let them know what you're doing. They might be interested in doing something similar…"

"Or not," he pointed out.

"All the better for your school then," she replied. "But if even one school does something similar and let's everyone know…"

He turned to face her. "It's not going to change this world, you know; our getting a few people to make one sacrifice, one donation, one gesture of help to the next person."

She leaned forward, kissing him softly. "We don't have to change the world, Jean-Luc. We just have to help the ones who will."


	49. Chapter 49

December 31 – part 1

Beverly pulled the loose end of the tape out of the dispenser, secured it against the box, then pulled the tape over the closed flaps. With a now practiced turn of her wrist, she twisted the machine, catching the tape on the jagged teeth, tearing it loose, then rubbed the tape securely overly the package.

She set the dispenser down next to the small box, pushed herself to her feet, then lifted the box, quickly moving to the staircase that led to the main floor of the school.

"Hey!" came the stern baritone of her husband. "You're supposed to leave the lifting and carrying to me," he reminded her.

She chuckled. "It's a box of towels, Jean-Luc," she explained. "It doesn't weigh anything."

He climbed the stairs, taking the almost weightless box from her, then set it on down, before pulling her into his arms. "Humor me," he said softly. "The stairs are steep; you are, by your own admission, a little off balance," he continued, his hand moving to caress the very round – and, as of the last few days – very low – curve of her belly, "and Gy and Fred had to take the banister down in order to move the couch out. I don't want to see you fall – not for the sake of a few towels," he said.

"Fine," she sighed petulantly.

"Beverly," he soothed, understanding her frustration at her quickly growing limitations, "it's only a few more weeks now. I promise that, once the baby is born, I will not worry about you overworking yourself or falling down the stairs, or doing anything that might even remotely be dangerous," he said soberly.

Despite herself, she chuckled softly, her body vibrating against his. "Liar," she murmured. "You're always going to worry about me."

He held her. "I know. I always have. Every away mission, every conference – the entire year you were back at Starfleet Medical, I worried."

She pulled back, looking at him. "You never said anything," she said in surprised amazement.

"A captain doesn't; a captain trusts that his people are trained and capable and can take care of themselves – but I still worried," he admitted.

"Is that why you always called?" she teased.

He raised a brow in question.

"Oh, come now, Jean-Luc," she reminded him. "At least one message the first day I was gone on every away mission or conference or meeting – ostensibly checking to make sure I arrived safely – and then a call every other day or so…"

"You were a commander on the Enterprise; I thought you would want to know what was happening in your absence," he demurred.

"I noticed that you didn't provide Will – or Deanna or Data or Geordi or Worf – with routine updates when they were on away missions," she pointed out.

He hesitated, then sighed and pulled her close once again. "I missed talking with you," he admitted. "I missed your voice. I missed your face."

"Hmmm. Will wasn't a good breakfast companion, then?" she teased.

"He ate all of the croissants," Jean-Luc replied with mock sobriety. "Left crumbs everywhere."

She chuckled, then reached for his face, pulling him close. "I missed you, too. Hearing your voice, seeing your face… It meant everything to me, Jean-Luc." She kissed him, softly at first, then more passionately before pulling back. "Oh, why didn't we do this long ago?" she asked plaintively.

"Because… we couldn't. We wouldn't," he reminded her. "I was Captain Jean-Luc Picard; you were Dr. Beverly Crusher. We were our positions, our jobs, our reputations. Becoming 'us' would have meant changing who 'we' were – and neither of us was ready for that. Maybe we never would have been," he added softly. "I… I was content in being who I was, Beverly – and to be brutally honest, there was a prestige to being who I was," he conceded.

Beverly looked at him, surprised. "Prestige being Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the flagship of the Federation? Or Jean-Luc  
Picard, the quadrant's most eligible bachelor?"

He smiled at the question. "Certainly not that – nor, for that matter, being the captain – at least not the captain, per se. But in being a captain? Yes, certainly. I found satisfaction in being a captain – in the years of training and experience, the expectations of the position – expectations I imposed upon myself," he hastily added, "the behaviors, the character, the independence… I had defined, for myself, what it meant to be a starship captain, Beverly – and I was content in living that definition."

"A definition that didn't include others," she pointed out.

"It did," he objected, "but again, others – as limited by my terms. The friends I had at the Academy – for the most part, they had gone their own ways and our friendships faded. My friendship with Jack was the exception – but when he died, it reaffirmed my decision that living my life in that defined role – my defined and private role - was better for me. I would be the consummate captain, even if that meant foreswearing meaningful and deep personal relationships," he explained.

"And me?" she asked.

He looked at her soberly. "Be honest, Beverly; you know what would have happened if we had begun a relationship while we were both on the Enterprise – we both know. While Starfleet would never have said anything officially, unofficially, it would have been frowned upon. Your impartiality in being able to judge my fitness to command would have been questioned; my ability to assign you to missions – and any outcomes or consequences – would have come under intense scrutiny. We would have both been miserable. That's not what you want for the person you love."

Beverly sighed, then nodded. "I know. I… Jean-Luc, I wasn't going to mention this, but… when I was at that last conference? The one just before all this…?"

He nodded.

Beverly hesitated, then continued. "I… The rumor mill had it that John Sentova was stepping down as the head of Starfleet Medical… I was thinking about applying for the post," she said.

"And leaving the Enterprise?" he said.

She nodded. "I loved working with you Jean-Luc – but it wasn't enough. I wanted more with you – and you're right and I knew it: we couldn't pursue a relationship if we were on the same ship."

He nodded – then kissed her again. "It would have been difficult to pursue a relationship with me on the other side the quadrant," he pointed out.

She returned his kiss, her arms tightening around him. "Yes – but even a long-distance love affair would have been something, something worth trying."

Their lips met again. "It might not have been so long-distance," he said.

"Oh?"

It took a few moments before he could answer; her kisses were growing deeper and more passionate.

"Sentova wasn't the only one stepping down," he finally managed. "F'tukta was resigning; she wanted to return to her home world – and Admiral Nechayev was dangling a promotion in front of me… and I was seriously thinking about taking it. If you were going to return to Starfleet Medical," he added.

"You were going to leave the Enterprise? For me?" she asked, stunned.

"For us," he corrected her – then corrected himself. "For the possibility of us."

She pulled back, staring at her husband in amazement. "That would have been a hell of a gamble, Jean-Luc," she said.

"Beverly, I've always said that friendship must dare – or it isn't friendship. How much more, then, must love dare? And I did love you." He smiled wanly. "Do love you," he amended, kissing her once again, then taking her hand, starting to lead her to their bed – the one piece of furniture that Fred, Gy and he hadn't hauled out of the apartment the previous day.

To his surprise, however, she stood her ground. "Jean-Luc, we have to have everything packed up and ready to move by ten tomorrow morning. Pat's invitations for the brunch were explicit: every guest has to show up here by eleven tomorrow morning, help move us into the house – and then and only then can they get fed."

He sighed, glancing about the small apartment, appalled by the sheer volume of things they had acquired in the last year – and the fact that even after two days of packing, they still had so much more to do.

There was little that was superfluous, of course – the odd vase from Pat and the piece of artwork here and there – but there were dishes, pots and pans, cups, saucers, the coffeemaker, tea kettle, bath supplies – everything that they needed for their daily lives – and, for the most part, it all needed to be boxed, sealed and carried down to the main floor of the school.

On another day, he would have convinced her that the task could wait – but they both knew that the sale of the building would be concluded first thing on January 2 – and the demolition crew would be moving in hours after that. With a sigh, he released his wife, reached for the stack of dinner plates, and began to carefully layer them in a box.

The sun had long set when they finished packing the last box and Jean-Luc had carried them downstairs; the morning would leave them only a few small tasks – stripping the bed and packing the linens and boxing up the last of the bathroom supplies.

Sweating and exhausted, Jean-Luc slowly made his way up the stairs to the almost empty apartment that had been their home for nearly a full year. He looked around, nodding to himself in approval: three hundred sixty-five days ago, he would never have guessed that this would be where – or when – he would have been today – but looking at what he had done – what they had done – what they had accomplished – and what they were soon to begin – he found in it a level of satisfaction he knew he would never have found in his own time.

Tomorrow… tomorrow, they would have New Year's brunch with Pat and Gy, celebrating their year here, celebrating their new friends – and their new family, Jean-Luc thought, remembering the expressions on the faces of their friends when they had asked them to act as godparents to their child – and then they would move into their new home – an old farmhouse that Pat had found a few miles from her home, run down and in need of repair – but within their budget and surrounded by twenty-some acres of farmland.

And in a few weeks, they would welcome their child…

He sighed contentedly.

It was a good life, he thought. Not the life he had planned – but a damned good one nonetheless.

And they would make it better.

He raised his eyes to Beverly: beautiful, radiant with intelligence and compassion, glowing with the life that was burgeoning within her – and smiled.

"I love you," he said.

She laughed. "You are incorrigible," she said, moving into his arms.

"And you are beautiful. Sensual. Erotic. Enticing…"he said, kissing her to punctuate each word.

She met each kiss with growing ardor, then pulled him toward the bed.

Later – much later - they lay in the bed, still wrapped in one another's arms, their bodies wet with perspiration and sex, exhausted by the languid hours of foreplay and the stunningly intense culmination of their passions, hearts still pounding as their breathing slowly returned to normal; he kissed her softly, then gave a quiet laugh.

She gave him a questioning look.

"I was just thinking… It's been exactly one year."

Beverly nodded, smiling. "So it has. Happy New Year's Eve, Jean-Luc," she said softly.

"Happy New Year, Beverly."

They kissed softly, then pulled apart. "You must admit this is better than how we spent last New Year's Eve," he pointed out.

She smiled her agreement, then pressed against him tightly.

"Jean-Luc?"

"Hmmm?" he said contentedly.

"I was wondering… Would you like to do something different tonight? Something you've never done before?" she asked.

He gave her a disappointed look. "Ummm… I might need a little time, Beverly," he conceded, wondering how she could still be thinking about sex, let alone dreaming up some new variation.

She laughed softly. "That wasn't what I meant, Jean-Luc."

"Oh. Then certainly," he agreed. "Whatever you want."

"Good. In that case…"

He looked at her, waiting.

"Let's have a baby," she said.

Picard grinned. "We will… soon," he began – then suddenly stopped. "Beverly?"

She smiled at him, then took his hand and lowered it to her belly. "It's time, Jean-Luc: I'm in labor."


	50. Chapter 50

December 31 – part 2

He almost jumped out of bed at her announcement. "Beverly! Did we… Did I… Was it something I did…."

She tried not to laugh at his reaction – then tried not to grimace as a contraction began to tighten her muscles. The wave grew slowly, building to a height and holding tight for a few moments – then eased off equally slowly.

"Beverly?"

"Contraction," she explained. "And yes, it was something you did – and I did," she said. "Prostaglandins in the male ejaculate can hasten contractions, and those orgasms certainly incited some activity in the uterine muscles, but," she added at his panicky expression, "neither would bring on premature labor. Otherwise this would have started this morning, or last night, or yesterday afternoon…"

He reddened; he knew that they often made love – but he still was more than a little embarrassed by just how frequently that really was.

"All right," he said, steeling himself for what was to come. "Your bag is packed. I'll help you get dressed, then we'll call Deborah and I'll get the car…"

Beverly stopped him with a soft laugh. "We don't have to hurry, Jean-Luc. The contractions are still few and far between; I'm going to do a quick scan, and we should call Deborah – but based on my experience, we probably have at least eight hours before Junior decides to show up. If you'll get my scanner…?" she asked.

Almost jumping from the bed, he hurried to where they had sequestered the medical equipment and the bag they had prepared for the inevitable trip to the hospital; grabbing the scanner case, he returned it to her, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

She pulled the scanner out of the case, then smiled at him. "I love watching you run around the bedroom naked. I love how everything just… jiggles," she informed him.

His eyes widened at the remark. How could she be thinking of something like that at a time like this?

Bemused, she turned on the scanner and began to pass it over her abdomen with methodical care. Glancing at the tricorder, she repeated the pass several times then, turned off the handheld device, slipped it back in the case and smiled at her husband. "Still very early. Eight hours might be optimistic – second babies can hurry things a bit – but we probably don't need to head to the hospital for several hours. I'm going to call Deborah and confirm with her," she added.

Grabbing the cell phone, Picard hastily dialed the number, then handed off the phone to Beverly.

After a brief discussion, she closed the phone, then slowly lay back on the bed.

It took him a moment to realize that Beverly was experiencing another contraction. "Beverly…?"

She raised a hand, asking his patience – then let out her breath in a slow stream. "Not bad," she murmured to herself, then met his gaze. "The doctor's answering service is looking for Deborah; she's not on call tonight, but asked to be notified when I called. Dr. Staphnie is on duty – we met her at the last appointment ," she reminded him, "and the service is calling her. And…"

With perfect timing, the cell phone rang, and Beverly picked it up. "Hello?"

She listened for a moment, then nodded to Picard. "And a happy New Year's Eve to you, Doctor," she said. "I've just started labor; the contractions are about ten minutes apart, and my water hasn't broken yet." She listened for a moment, then nodded. "I agree." There was silence for another moment, then Beverly replied, "Then I'll call you back around 10 PM, or when the contractions get to 5 minutes or when my water breaks. Thank you."

She closed the phone, then sat up, pushing herself to the edge of the bed.

"What are you doing?" Jean-Luc asked.

"I'm going to take a shower," she informed him. "Want to join me?" she asked.

Her gaped at her, amazed. How could she remain so completely calm in a situation like this? he asked himself – then jumped to his feet as she tried to push her girth to an upright position. Helping her stand, he walked with her to the shower, offering his help if she needed it – and finding himself a little relieved when she declined the offer.

As the sound of running water drifted into the living area, he sank onto the bed, still somewhat stunned.

I'm going to be a father, he thought.

Until a few minutes ago, he had understood that statement on an intellectual level – but in the last twenty minutes, it had suddenly taken on a deeper, emotional import.

I'm going to be a father, he thought… tonight!

Not for the first time – but for the first time with the memory carrying a breathtaking weight – he thought back to his relationship with his own father – one of resentment and distance, painful and empty and aching.

It won't be like that for you, he swore to his unborn child; whoever you are, whatever you want from your life, I will love you – and you will know that! he promised silently. You will always know that I love you!

But will I be a good enough father? Will I be able to give you the guidance and the counsel and the help a father should be able to provide? Will I be able to care for your material and physical needs? Will I be good enough?

And what if I'm not? he worried.

No, he told himself firmly: I will be – whatever it takes, I will be there for you – and if I'm not good enough… then I will learn to be better.

The sound of the water stopped; he was vaguely aware of the sound of the shower curtain being drawn back, then of Beverly drying herself.

Opening the door, he was about to ask her if he should get her clothes when he saw her holding onto the edge of the bathroom sink, her hands white with the intensity of her grip.

"Beverly?"

She nodded, her lips slowly moving as she counted through the contraction – then the color slowly returned to her face and fingers, followed by a wan smile. "I had forgotten how strong they can be," she admitted, then met his gaze. "I was going to suggest we take a walk – but… I think I just want to lie down. Can you make the bed? I'm going to dry my hair."

"Of course. Beverly… You've prepared a hypo for this. Do you want it?"

She smiled. "Not yet. I hate to tell you this, Jean-Luc – but these aren't bad. Not compared to what's going to come. Once my water breaks, then the contractions are going to get intense. When that happens, we can head over to the hospital – and that's when I'll give myself the hypo," she said. "Somehow, I think Dr Staphnie will frown on my self-medicating once I'm admitted, and I'll admit that I'm not keen on having the drugs wear off prematurely. No; I think I can wait a bit longer."

He nodded, deferring to her medical judgment – but hating to see her in pain.

Moving back into their room, he quickly remade their bed, plumping all the pillows to help support her back so she could sit up more comfortably. Placing her med kit on the night stand, he moved the hospital bag to the top of the stairs, placed their winter coats atop it, then looked around, wondering what else needed to be done – then glanced down.

He was still naked.

Rolling his eyes, he returned to the bathroom to help Beverly to the bed – though now that the contraction had passed, her strength and determination seemed to have returned. She brushed off his offer of assistance, chuckling at him.

"Your turn; take a shower, get dressed. I'll crawl back into bed once I'm dressed," she added.

"You're sure?"

She raised a hand to his face. "Jean-Luc, I had Wesley on my own; you and Jack were off on the other side of the galaxy, and aside from a classmate or two, there was no one there to help me. I did just fine. I can handle ten minutes on my own while you get washed," she assured him.

By the time he emerged from the shower and reentered the bedroom, Beverly was on the cell phone once again.

"Between nine and ten minutes," she was saying, glancing up to smile at Jean-Luc. "No. Not yet." She listened for a moment. "Not bad. A little shaky – but holding up," she added, then smiled at the response. "I'll let him know," she added.  
"All right; I'll check with you in a little bit," she said, then closed the phone and put it on the night stand. "Deborah," she explained. "She's at a party, but is leaving now. She'll meet us at the hospital later."

He nodded. "How are you doing?" he asked. "I heard you tell her that you were a little shaky?"

Beverly laughed softly. "Actually, she asked how you were doing," she admitted.

It took him a moment to digest that her comment had been about him, not about herself; not sure if he was offended or not, he decided to ignore the gentle jibe, suspecting it was closer to the truth than he cared to admit. He moved to the piled of clothes they had left unpacked for the next day, dressed himself, then returned to the bed, taking his place beside Beverly. "Anything I can do? Call Pat? Gy?"

Beverly shook her head. "No. Gy's out with Sandra tonight, and Pat's busy getting the brunch prepared. There's nothing they – or anyone – can do. This is just something we have to wait for," she added.

He looked at her for a moment. "You do realize, Beverly, that you and I aren't very good at just… waiting. We usually spend our time talking…"

"I'm afraid I'm not going to be much of a conversationalist tonight," she informed him, her face paling slightly as a new contraction washed over her.

"I know. But our other option – having sex – isn't viable either," he pointed out.

Despite the pain, Beverly burst out laughing. "Uh, no, that isn't on my list, either. We could take a cue from our fellow citizens of this time," she pointed out.

"And…?"

"Watch a movie?"

Grinning, Picard rose from the bed, found one of the DVDs that hadn't been packed yet, and, after a moment of hunting for the remote control, activated the television.

"Pirates of the Caribbean?" he asked.

"Perfect," she agreed.

As the movie played out, only half-watched by the incipient parents, they held hands, Beverly's only concession to the slowly increasing contractions being her tightening grip on his hand. After an hour, however, she quickly released his hand, moving from the bed to the bathroom and shutting the door behind her.

The sound of her vomiting pulled him from the bed; he hurried to the door, tapping gently. "Beverly?"

When she didn't respond, he opened the door, but she waved him away.

"Beverly?"

She shook her head she said from where she knelt before the toilet. "I'm all right. It's not unusual – the sudden urge to throw up – but it does mean things are beginning to progress. I'll be fine… I want to brush my teeth," she added, reaching to flush the toilet before weakly trying to stand up.

He moved to her side, helping her up, then supporting her as she rinsed out her mouth; reaching under her arms, he lifted her, then carefully carried her back to the bed and propped her against the pillows once more. "Should we go soon?"

Reaching for the scanner, she quickly assessed her condition, then shook her head. "No. I know it seems a little intimidating, Jean-Luc; there's a lot happening to me and it seems as though it's going quickly – but my labor is progressing at a fairly normal rate. When the contractions get to five minutes or my water breaks, then we'll head out," she said.

Not entirely comfortable with that response – but trusting in her skills as a doctor – he sat back, half watching the balance of the movie, half watching his wife. To his relief, she drifted into a dozing rest between the contractions, half rousing as each new once passed then falling back into a doze. Unwilling to disturb her, he slid from the bed as the movie ended, slid in the next one, then eased his way back to her side.

Suddenly her eyes flew open; yanking back the covers from the bed, she raced to the bathroom once more, Jean-Luc at her heels.

"My water's breaking," she explained.

"We should go to the hospital?" he asked.

"We should find me some dry pants," she countered. "And call the doctor," she added. "Then go get the car and bring it to the front."

He stared at her, stunned by how quickly things were now moving – then hurried from the room.

Dry pants, he thought, finding the clothing and bring it to her. Grabbing the cell phone, he called the doctor's number, leaving a message that they were heading to the hospital, then grabbed his coat, the car keys and the bag. "I'll get the car and bring it around front," he informed her. "You stay here; I'll come back up to get you."

"Not a problem; I'm not trying the stairs without you," Beverly said, panting as an intense contraction began.

A man with a mission, he felt a surge of confidence and determination; hurrying down the stairs, he hurried to where the car was parked behind the school, threw her bag into the back, started the car, then moved it to one of the empty spaces in front of the school. Parking it once more, he hurried back up the stairs, then up the second flight to their room – and froze.

Beverly was on her hands and knees beside the bed, panting hard, clearly in the midst of an intense contraction.

"Scanner," she panted as he rushed to her side.

Grabbing the device, he flipped it on, handing it to her, then moved the tricorder into her line of sight.

"Damn it!" she muttered, then looked at him. "Med kit."

He grabbed the kit, opening it, waiting for her directions.

"Hypo – load it with the blue ampule," she ordered, then took the proffered device and jabbed it against her arm.

"What is it?" he asked as the drug hit her system, watching as her color began to return.

"Nothing bad , Jean-Luc," she said – then managed a wan smile. "Just a little miscalculation. The contractions usually get more intense when the amniotic sac breaks – sometimes they get a lot more intense – and a lot faster," she explained.

"Oh," he said, not understanding. "And…"

"And the baby's coming," she finished.

"All right," he said mildly. "Let's go…"

"No, Jean-Luc, they baby is coming… now."


	51. Chapter 51

December 31 - part 3

"What?"

"The baby is coming now. I'm in hard labor. The contractions are less than a minute apart. Help me back on the bed, then get the towels that we boxed up. We're going to need some blankets, too; we're going to need to keep him warm," she added.

He lifted her carefully, easing her onto the bed, then, at her direction, hurried back down the stairs and retrieving the boxes of towels that had just finishing packing.

"A couple underneath my butt," she said. "This can get a little messy. Okay, I want you to sit across from me. I'm going to brace feet against your legs so I can push – and I'm going to have to hold onto your hands. There's another contraction coming," she added – then smiled at him. "You're right – this is easier with the drugs. My head's clearer when I'm not in pain – but you're still going to have to deliver her," she added. "Fortunately, she's turned, her head's well placed in the birth canal – so it's just going to be a matter of pushing. " Feeling the next wave, she drew a deep breath, holding it as the spasm intensified, rocking back and forth for a few moments, then let it out again and reached for the scanner. "Next contraction, Jean-Luc, and I'm going to starting pushing. You're going to have to watch for her head to start to crown. It'll take a few contractions at least," she cautioned him.

"I remember the training programs," he replied.

Beverly chuckled. "The programs aren't quite the same as real life, Jean-Luc – and it's quite different when it's your child being born."

He looked up at her. "My child," he replied with dumb amazement.

"Your child… Oh, here we go!" she gasped, then reached for his hands, bracing herself against him as she began to push.

Counting, she pushed, steadily trying to increase the pressure to coincide with the muscular contraction, then let out her breath and lay back as the wave passed – only to reach for his hands again, just a few seconds later. "They're coming fast and hard," she grunted, pushing once more, then falling back again.

"Once more, and I'll need to take a scan," she explained.

He moved from his position, grabbing the devices and placing them near her as she reached for him once more, bearing down with the contraction before falling back. Hastily she grabbed the scanner, taking a fast reading, then dropped it in time for the next wave.

"Beverly?"

"It's good; we're good," she gasped. "A few more pushes..."

She pulled herself against him hard, then fell back. "Once more; watch for her head to crown. When it does, try to help ease the tissues back. Just use your fingers…"

"They aren't sterilized," he protested.

Despite herself, Beverly laughed. "They weren't sterile when you were touching me a few hours ago," she pointed out. "It didn't stop you then!"

"Um… good point."

"Okay… Contractions starting… One, two, three…"

As she counted, he could see her making a concerted effort to push the child from her womb, trying to contract her muscles intentionally as well as relying on the reflexive contraction of her body; as she reached 'thirty', he saw the opening of her vagina spreading slightly, the saw a narrow band of dark hair pressing outward.

"I can see part of her head!"

Beverly panted hard; the drugs kept the pain from registering in her body's awareness, but the sensations of pressure and distention were undisguisable. "I know!" she groaned, rolling back for a moment – then pulled herself up once more, and redoubling her effort.

Staring at the site of the head slowly beginning to emerge, Picard froze for a moment – then began to ease back the folds of his wife's vagina from the sides of his child's head – but the head seemed to have no limits, continuing to spread the flesh further and further apart, stretching it thinner and thinner…

A thin rivulet of blood appeared as Beverly gave a hoarse cry.

"You're bleeding."

"I'm tearing – but the head's almost out," she groaned. "Don't worry; it's reparable. But we need to get the head delivered," she insisted.

With a cry of effort, Beverly curled up as tightly as possible, pushing hard – and with a gush of blood and fluid, the balance of the child's head emerged.

"Her head is out!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

Beverly look between her legs, smiling giddily as she realized that their child was being born, then reached down, carefully supporting the baby's head, the grabbed the tricorder. "Good. The umbilicus isn't wrapped around her neck," she said, then put the machine down. "Support her as she comes out," she said. "I'm going to help turn her a bit to ease her shoulders out," she explained. "It's going to happen faster, so just help support her."

He nodded, then watched as Beverly's next contraction began – and a long length of wet, squirming and bloody baby emerged, trailing a length of red umbilical cord. Easing the child old, he carefully set her – him!- him! – it was a boy! – on the wet and bloody towels between them.

There was a faint cry as the cold air of the room reached the infant's wet skin.

"Suction his nose and mouth," Beverly directed tiredly. "Take a dry towel and clean him off, then wrap him up as best you can," she directed, then reached for her scanner. "I have to deliver the afterbirth, then we can clamp and cut the cord."

Following his wife's directions, he cleaned out his son's mouth, then his nose; grabbing a clean and dry towel, Jean-Luc carefully wrapped it around the baby, trying to rub off the sticky fluids, then wrapped him in a second towel while Beverly scanned herself – then their baby.

"He's fine," she said in weary happiness. "A healthy baby boy." She glanced down at the umbilical cord still attached to him, watching as the pulsations of the cord slowed, terminating the connection of her heart to the infant's, then she placed two clamps close to his abdomen. With a laser scalpel, she cut the cord, then lay back, exhausted.

"Beverly…"

"I know. The placenta hasn't delivered yet," she said.

"You're bleeding," he countered.

"I know," she said, her voice softening, growing more tired. "Jean-Luc, something's wrong," she managed. "Can you call an ambulance?"

He stared at her for a second – then grabbed the phone, hastily dialing the emergency number.

"Yes, it's an emergency!" he said as the voice began to speak. "This is John Picard. I'm at 14 East Wilson Street, Batavia. My wife just had her baby. She's bleeding. We need an ambulance."

"John?" a familiar voice replied. "It's Garry Mannick." Picard instantly recognized the dispatcher as one of Beverly's favorite customers. " John," the man continued, "we just had a bad crash on Fabyan; all our ambulances are on site. Is it Beverly?"

"Yes," he answered. "She's bleeding badly, Garry. She says the placenta hasn't delivered…"

"Damn it! Okay. Okay…. Okay!" he said after a long moment. "All right. I've got an ambulance on it's way from the North Aurora station – but it's not going to be there for at least fifteen minutes…"

"Fifteen minutes," he repeated to his rapidly paling wife.

Beverly nodded weakly. "Tell them to hurry," she said wearily.

"Tell them to hurry," he repeated into the phone.

"John," the voice said with quiet but firm control, "if she's bleeding a lot, you may not want to wait. Have you got a car?"

"Yes."

"Then wrap her and the baby up and drive them to Delnor. Go to the emergency door; I'll let them know you're on the way," the dispatcher said.

"We're on the way," Jean-Luc replied, then hung up the phone. "Beverly, I'm going to get you and the baby to the hospital…"

She shook her head wearily. "You're going to have to try to deliver the placenta first, Jean-Luc," she said. "If it is expelled while we're on the way, I could hemorrhage."

"And if it won't deliver?" he pressed.

Beverly managed a smile. "Then I'm going to need surgery – but you can be reasonably sure I'll be safe in the car."

He nodded. "All right. What do I do?"

"First thing; put Junior on my chest, then cover us both," she said. "I'll keep him warm while you're working. Second, prepare a hypo with three milligrams of oxytocin," she said.

He placed their son - our son! he gaped, still astonished - on his mother's chest, her hand weakly reaching to hold their child against her, a weak but triumphant smile on her face - then carefully covered the two. Following her orders, he quickly made the hypo, then pressed it against her neck – only to earn a gasp of pain in return. "It's working; the uterus is contracting hard. I want you to try to pull – gently – on the umbilical cord. If the placenta is separating from the uterine wall, it should be expelled – but there may be a lot of blood. A lot. If that happens, I may lose consciousness," she cautioned him. "If that happened, repeat the dosage on the hypo, Jean-Luc, and push – hard! – on my belly. Direct pressure to slow the bleeding. Don't stop," she whispered.

Taking one of the dry towels, he secured a grasp on the umbilical cord and began to pull with gentle, steady pressure. For a several moments, nothing happened – then with a wet, sticky spasm, a heavy wet mass slid out from between Beverly's legs, landing with a sodden splat on the bloody towels beneath her legs - only to be followed by a gush of blood, flooding the bed beneath the two.

Instantly he leaned forward, pressing his hands against her belly – but it seemed to have no effect; putting as much of his weight as he dared on his arms, leaned forward, earning a cry of pain from his wife, but only a faint slowing of the flow of blood.

"Beverly," he started – but she spoke first.

"Hypo," she insisted, then added, "It hurts! Oh, it hurts… Keep pressing," she insisted.

Grabbing the hypo, he adjusted it to repeat the injection, then pressed it against her neck once more.

"Just hang on," he said. "I'm going to get you to the hospital."

She nodded, by her eyes were quickly losing focus. "So tired," she murmured. "Keep the baby warm. Keep him safe," she whispered - then reached an exhausted and bloody hand to his face. "Oh, I love you!" she said. "I love you so much. I wanted to be here for you – for our baby… I don't want to go!" she cried. "I want to stay with you! I want to stay…" she cried softly. "I love you, Jean-Luc… I…"

Her hand fell from his face, dropping slowly to her side as her closed, her heading lolling to one side.

"Beverly? Beverly!"

He stared at her empty face.

"Beverly?

Shocked, he reached for her hand, pulling it to his face – but the hand was limp, insensate.

"Beverly? Beverly? Don't leave me," he begged softly. "Please, Beverly; don't go. I love you."

But there was no response to his words; in the barren apartment, the only sound was the faint cry of a newborn infant.


	52. Chapter 52

"Got 'em… three life signs, Captain!" Chief Engineer Miles O'Brien announced – then instantly amended, "I'm losing one!"

"What?" Captain Will Riker exclaimed.

"Life signs are weak – fading – on one of the targets," O'Brien confirmed. "Beam them up?"

Captain Will Riker barked out the confirming order. "Emergency transport, direct to Sickbay! Sickbay," he added, barking a second, instant order, "Prepare for incoming medical emergency!"

"Sickbay standing by," Alyssa Ogawa replied. "We have them sir… Oh my God."

Will glanced at his head Counselor, nodding for her to join him as he quickly made his way toward the lift doors at the back of the bridge. "I'll be in Sickbay, Geordi," he informed his first officer. "You have the bridge. Please ask Mr. Data to join us," he added,

Geordi LaForge nodded his acknowledgement of the order. "Aye, Captain," he said, moving from his usual post as first officer into the command chair, then tapped the comm panel. "Mr. Data, Captain Riker would like you to join him in Sickbay."

"On my way, Commander," came the rigid tones of the android's voice.

Geordi tapped the control ending the signal, then glanced at the man seated at the helm. "Let's see if we got it right… this time," he sighed.

Sickbay was awash in chaos when the two officers arrived; although he had prepared himself for what he was going to see, it still took will Riker aback.

In the center of the floor, half dozen nurses and doctors huddles around the unmoving, bloody and nearly naked form of Beverly Crusher, while two more were trundling the towel-wrapped form of a new born baby into an infant support bed – and in the center stood blood-stained, white-faced form of Jean-Luc Picard.

A nurse reached for his arm, trying to lead him away, but the captain resisted, clearly not willing to be moved.

"Captain," the man said pleadingly, but Picard simply shook off the arm.

"Beverly," he began to protest.

"She's in good hands," Will said as he approached Picard.

The older man turned, startled.

"Will?" he said.

Riker smiled reassuringly.

Picard stared, shocked and stunned – then his resolve seemed to run out of him. He sagged, and only Will's quick reflexes kept him from falling to the ground.

"It's all right, sir; we've got you." Will said as he helped steady the man, then glanced at the nurse who quickly took the man's other arm and together the two led him from the room even as the medical teams moved their two patients into an adjacent room. At Will's look, Deanna nodded, following the medical team, and leaving the men alone.

Benumbed, Picard allowed himself to be seated on a biobed; the nurse grabbed a scanner and quickly passed it over the shaken man. After a moment he looked at Riker.

"He's in shock, Captain," he said quietly. "I'd like to sedate him…"

"No," Picard said firmly.

"Captain, you've been through a lot…" Will protested.

"No, Will," he repeated, his voice rapidly growing stronger. "Not until I know how Beverly and… and my son," the words did not come easily to the man, "are."

"Deanna's gone to check on them, Captain," Will assured him – then looked at the nurse, nodding for him to leave them.

With a clearly disapproving look, the man followed the order; as the door slid shut, Will moved to face his old friend and captain.

"Your son," he repeated quietly – then smiled. "Those aren't words I ever thought to hear you say, Captain."

Picard looked at him – then smiled. "Nor I, Will," he admitted.

"Then you and Beverly…?"

Picard glanced down at his hand, looking at the heavy metal ring that he had worn since that July afternoon. "We were married six months ago," he said quietly.

Despite himself, Will grinned. The newborn he had seen in the arms of the med techs was not a premature baby. "Six months? And now you have a son? I take it the honeymoon preceded the wedding?"

Picard harrumphed.

"I'm sorry, Captain," Will apologized instantly. "That was uncalled for; it's none of my business."

"No," Picard countered, "it's all right. I… We…" he shook his head, uncertain where to begin - or how to explain.

"You don't have to explain," Will insisted.

Picard nodded, relieved – then met his friend's eyes. "It's good to see you, Will," he said, looking the man over carefully.

He looked… old, Picard thought. Not just worried or weary – but old. Leaner, his face narrower, his from thinner, his hair and beard thinning and shot with a few strands of grey – and, Picard suddenly realized, with four pips on his collar.

"And this is the Enterprise?" he asked.

Will nodded.

"Will," he said quietly, "how long have we been gone?"

Riker drew a long breath. "Captain, maybe we should wait until Deanna is back…"

"How long?" Picard repeated.

"Five years," Will said quickly. "Almost six."

Picard blanched. "Six years," he whispered.

Will nodded his confirmation.

"It was only a year – exactly one year – for us, Will," he offered.

"A year?"

Picard nodded. "We were on the way back to the Enterprise for your New Year's Eve party when… when whatever happened, happened."

"What happened, Captain, was the Ferengi," Will explained.

Picard gave a rough laugh. "Then they were right," he muttered. "There had been a rumor circulating at that last conference about them hijacking unmanned ships…"

"That's exactly what they were doing," the captain agreed. "They were grabbing unmanned shuttles and other small vessels when they went into solar orbit – usually on a return course from a run to Utopia Planitia or the asteroid belt - snagging them using a tractor beam – and a chronometric vortex. It sent them back in time a few years; they would send in a crew to pick up the ships, then either dismantle them for parts or sell them as complete vessels. Since the ships weren't reported as stolen, the sales weren't questioned. It was quite clever – Starfleet wrote off the vessels as being lost in the sun's coronasphere, as there was no trace of them – no debris, no radioactive signatures.

"When you didn't make it to the Enterprise that night, Starfleet Command sent out a team to search for the ship. They didn't find any debris – but there were chronometric particles; you must have fought the tractor beam…"

"We did," Picard agreed.

"And you clearly broke loose," Will said. "That left the time markers – and Starfleet investigated and put it all together. But stealing ships was one thing: kidnapping a starship captain and a CMO was something else. Starfleet didn't know if they had targeted you, or if it was simply coincidence," he added – then grinned. "Admiral Nechayev went after them over that; she threatened to take them to war if they didn't turn you over. By the time she was done with them, we had all the ships back – except yours.

"But we didn't know where you were – or when. Or if you had been killed," Will added. "We searched for a time – then Starfleet called off the search," he added grimly.

Picard looked at his friend, seeing the shame and embarrassment in the man's face – and reached out a hand to clap him on the shoulder. "I understand, Will. At some point, they had to move on. Starfleet isn't about one man – or one woman – no matter how important they are to you personally."

"I didn't," Will replied. "I was livid. They gave up on you. And then they told me I had to give up on you as well," he added. "I'm sorry," he apologized quietly. "I should have kept looking…"

"You had other priorities, Will," Picard reminded him. "And you did find us," he pointed out.

But Riker shook his head. "Not me. Data. He refused to give up on you, Captain. He assumed that you made it back to Earth – if you didn't, then there was nothing we could do to get you back. Given the presence of the chronometric particles, he also assumed that you moved through time – and he began to search historical records for any trace of you or Beverly. It took him four years to find a single reference to you, Captain," he said.

"Four years? But you said it's been five – almost six years," Picard said.

"Finding a reference to you was one thing," a softly formal voice interrupted. "Getting to you was a different matter."

Picard stared at the door, startled by the voice; he hadn't heard the door open, let alone seen anyone enter – then he slid off the bed, standing as Data approached him.

"Hello, Captain," Data said softly.

Picard nodded, reaching for the man's hand – but to his surprise, the android enveloped him, pulling him into his arms, clapping him on his back. "It is good to see you once again," he said.

"It's good to see you, too, Data," Picard agreed.

Releasing the man, he stepped back, looking at his old friend. Unlike Will, however, the android appeared no different than the last time Picard had seen him – but unlike Will, there were no pips at the man's collar; indeed, he wasn't dressed in anything that even looked remotely like a Starfleet uniform.

"Commander…" Picard began.

Data interrupted. "That title is no longer applicable, Captain," he said.

Picard grinned. "Then Will here isn't the only one that Starfleet saw fit to promote?" he asked.

Data frowned, then glanced at Will. "You have not told him?" he asked.

Will shook his head. "I was just getting to it," he said.

"Getting to what?" Picard asked, concerned.

"To my rank," Data said, "or rather the lack thereof."

Will spoke up. "Captain, when I said Data wouldn't give up on you, I meant that. When Starfleet ordered us to stop trying to find you, Data resigned," he said.

Picard's eyes widened in horror. "You what?"

"I resigned," Data said simply. "I spent the next four years researching Earth history of the period looking for some reference to you or Doctor Crusher. After considerable research, I located a single reference in the historical archives which served as a locator for your position in time and space. However, finding a way to travel to such a specific location and date is not a simple task. It has taken us four attempts to reach you, Captain," he explained.

Picard stared at the two, stunned. "I… I don't know what to say, gentlemen; I'm honored – but whether it was a good use of your time and energy… " He shook his head. "Data, giving up your career for me – for us…"

"If I may, Captain, was it not you who said that friendship must dare – or it is not friendship?" Data countered. "I consider it my privilege to have been able to assist you in this matter," he said simply. "And I am glad that you – and Dr. Crusher and your child – are returned. Chief O'Brien and I were becoming doubtful that we would be able to find you this time – and executing a fourth visit to the same time period was problematic."

"Chief O'Brien?" Picard said. "Miles O'Brien?"

"My chief engineer," Will said. "He took the position when Geordi took the post of first officer," he added.

"Geordi is your first officer?" he repeated in dumb amazement.

Will smiled. "For almost three years – since Worf left to accept a position as governor of K'thou."

"Worf's gone?"

"After we defeated the last Borg incursion, he was asked to return to the Klingon homeworld to help redevelop their defenses," Will said.

"The Borg?" Picard said.

Data looked sympathetically at the man. "It has been a very busy six years, Captain," he said.

Picard nodded – then looked up as the door to the small room opened, and Deanna entered, a small blanketed shape resting in her arms.

"Deanna!" he said.

She smiled. "Hello, Captain. I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but Dr. Ogawa wanted you to know that they've taken Beverly into surgery," she said.

Picard's face grew serious. "Is she going to be all right?"

"Alyssa says her prognosis is very good, but it will be a few hours before you can see her. However, someone else couldn't wait," she said. Smiling, she proffered the wrapped bundle to him.

Picard stared for a moment, then very carefully took his son into his arms.

He pushed the pale blue blanket back a bit from the infant's face, staring at his child.

My child.

My son.

Our son.

Someone had washed the blood and birthing fluids from his tiny body; a pink face, round and unmarred by the trauma of the day met his gaze, a small blue cap crowning his head.

"Hello," he said softly.

Hazel eyes met hazel eyes – then the infant gave a faint yawn and closed them.

Will moved closer, looking over the man's shoulder at the infant. "Your son," he said quietly.

Picard nodded, his eyes locked on his child – and smiled. "My son. Our son," he amended.

Deanna smiled at the pride and love in the man's voice. "He has your eyes," she said.

Picard nodded.

"He seems a fit specimen of a human infant," Data agreed as he looked at the tiny child.

"What's his name?" Will asked.

Picard stared at the baby for a long moment, then managed a strained whisper. "I don't know."

Beverly should be here, he thought; Beverly should be here, holding our son, helping name him… I can't do this without her, he thought.

I can't do this without you, Beverly.

"I don't know," he repeated.

Deanna felt the wave of anguish roll over her former commander even before she saw the tear hit the infant's blanket.

He was breaking, Deanna realized instantly; his emotions, repressed for the last hour, surged to the front, threatening to destroy his fragile grasp on his control. Stricken by his grief, she quickly looked to Will. "Captain Riker," she said calmly, "I think we've kept Captain Picard here long enough. I'm sure he'd like to get washed and change into some clean clothes," she said firmly.

Picard glanced down at himself, seeming to see for the first time that his clothes were covered with dried and crusted blood.

Will nodded, seeing Deanna's expression. "I'll have quarters assigned," he said, reaching for his commbadge.

"Would you like me to carry the baby?" Deanna asked, reaching for the infant, but to her surprise, Picard waved off the offer. "I will," he said quietly. "I need the practice," he added.

Beverly knew how to care for a baby, he thought to himself – but Beverly might not be there to help raise their son, he added.

Beverly.

Feeling a fresh wave of pain, Deanna pulled on Picard's arm, moving him toward the door, then out into the corridor.

The movement seemed to help; within a few moments, his step steadied, his grip on his child grew firmer and more secure. Sensing the man had regained at least a portion of his emotional equilibrium, she slid his arm in his.

"Would you like to talk about it, Captain?" she asked gently.

"Uh… there's so much – too much – to tell you, Counselor," he protested.

"It's Deanna, sir," she said.

"Pardon?"

She smiled. "I'm not here as a counselor, sir – just as a friend."

He reddened. "I'm sorry, Deanna. I didn't mean to offend you…"

"And you haven't," she insisted.

Picard stared at the child in his arms. What stories I have to tell you, he thought, smiling at his son.

"It was New Year's Eve," Picard said quietly. "I'm sure knew you already knew that," he added.

"It was New Year's Eve when your shuttle disappeared," she concurred.

"And New Year's Eve when we crashed on Earth," he said. "Only we didn't know that it wasn't New Year's Eve in our time, but back in 2011. The shuttle's systems, however, weren't functioning," he added, "so we didn't know that at the time."

Deanna nodded. "We've encountered a similar issue; a systemic power loss to all systems when we attempted time travel."

Picard nodded. "Not that knowing it would have mattered," he added soberly. "We landed in the midst of a blizzard, and with the ship's life support being down, we realized we were going to have to find help or risk dying from hypothermia."

As he related their adventures – and misadventures – in the world of the past, Deanna guided the new father to one of the guest suites – one typically reserved for high-ranking visitors, and certainly one befitting their old mentor. But it wasn't his old quarters, she apologized wordlessly – though he didn't seem to notice or care.

Because this wasn't his home anymore, she realized. It was still familiar – but it wasn't home.

"I can hold the baby while you wash and change," she offered.

Picard glanced at the child in his arms – then, with a tender kiss to his son's cheek, he handed the child to Deanna and headed toward the bathroom.

He emerged twenty minutes later, free of the blood and grime and dressed in a generic uniform – and without his rank pips.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, deigning not to mention the omission to his uniform, "but I've made something for us to eat. I presume you haven't eaten for a while," she added.

"No. We had breakfast, but we skipped lunch: we had to finish packing before everyone got there in the morning…" He stopped, realizing she had no idea what he was talking about. "Long story," he said, dismissing the details. "And by dinnertime, Beverly was in labor…"

The words caught in his throat, threatening to turn to grief once more – but that was an unseemly display of emotions, he chided himself. With a sharp breath, he stiffened his back, then reached to take his son back before seating himself at the table.

Deanna joined him, passing him a plate of pasta, then took one for herself. "Dr. Ogawa called me while you were in the shower," she started.

Picard looked at her sharply.

"Beverly? How is she?"

"Out of surgery and in recovery. Dr. Ogawa wants to stabilize her condition before moving her to a room – but she expects that you should be able to visit her within an hour or so, Captain," she informed him, then smiled. "I'm happy for you, Captain," she said. "For you and Beverly."

He frowned.

"You and Beverly have cared for each other for a long time," she said, "but neither of you ever acted on it."

"An on-board relationship with a fellow officer can be… problematic," he pointed out.

She nodded. "It can be. Sometimes it becomes easier not to involve one's self with others – or rather to involve yourself with a large number of people, rather than just one."

He raised a brow. "And you think we turned to one another only because there was no one else?"

"I didn't say that," she said.

"But you did think it," he countered.

"People do unusual things in times of stress," she said. "You've avoided a serious relationship with anyone, Captain, for all of your life; you and Beverly were together, with no one else with a common frame of reference, for less than a year – and you married and had a child."

He opened his mouth to protest – then stopped.

They had been friends for years – decades – and they hadn't done anything about it; trapped on Earth, together, and they had become lovers in less than two months.

Deanna might be right, he thought.

Or not.

"I love Beverly, Deanna," he said firmly. "I have for years. Marrying her was the best thing I have ever done – and if I have any regrets, it's that I didn't marry her years ago," he said firmly.

Deanna put down her fork, meeting his stern gaze. "You mean that," she said softly.

"I do," he replied.

She smiled. "Then I'm truly happy for you both. Really. I had thought you would never allow yourself to act on your personal feelings for others – especially those for Beverly," she said.

He gave a soft laugh. "There was a time, Deanna, when I thought that doing so would make me weaker – or worse, would expose my vulnerabilities to others. As a captain, I couldn't permit that…"

"But…?" she pressed.

"But as a man, I didn't realize how much of life I was deliberately denying myself."

"The two aren't mutually exclusive," she pointed out.

"They were for me," he answered.

He gathered a forkful of pasta, but barely raised it to his mouth before the baby in his arms began to fret.

Startled, he looked at the baby, uncertain what to do.

"I think you may not be the only one who is hungry, Captain," Deanna advised. She rose from the table, called out an order to the replicator, then returned to the table, a small bottle filled with a thin, blue-white fluid, a soft nipple attached to the top. "Not quite the same as mother's milk – and certainly not the colostrum that Beverly will be producing in the next few days – but it's nourishing and warm, and it will fill his tummy," she said softly.

Handing the bottle to Picard, she helped him position the child in his arms, then guided him through the art of feeding – or at least trying to feed – the baby.

It took a few attempts before the baby seemed to understand what was happening, then he latched onto the nipple, sucking on it weakly for a few minutes before turning his head away.

Picard looked at Deanna in concern – but she took the bottle, glanced at it, then smiled.

"He drank almost an ounce, Captain," she said.

"Is that enough?"

Deanna grinned. "I'm sure he'll let you know when he wants more," she advised – then reached for the baby, lifting him to her shoulder and gently patting his back.

"You seem to know what you're doing," Picard commented.

"I've had some experience," she replied. "Will and I have two sons – and a third on the way," she added softly.

Picard gaped. "You… you and Will…"

Deanna grinned. "Just after Starfleet declared that you and Beverly were lost, he proposed – and I accepted. Losing the both of you reminded us just how fleeting life could be; we were married within the month – and Thomas Ian arrived less than a year later. Kyle Andrew arrived eighteen months later – and this one," her hand went to her still flat belly, "will be here in about seven months."

He stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. "I'm happy for the both of you, Deanna," he said. "For all four – five! – of you."

"Thank you, Captain," she said. "It's been a challenge – being married and serving together – but it has been worth the effort." Moving the infant from her shoulder, she smiled at the infant. "He's going to want to take a nap now; if you'll take some advice from an experienced mother, eat now, while you can. Babies don't sleep long, and when he wakes up, he's going to want to eat again, need a change of diapers, and need your full attention. " She glanced up at him. "Do you need a hand with changing him?" she asked.

That, Picard thought, was a tempting offer – but he shook his head. "I'm going to have to learn this," he said.

Deanna chuckled. "You have changed," she said, "but do take my advice: eat while you can. I'll change him – and then we can return to Sickbay. I think that seeing you – and your son – will do more to help Beverly recover than anything Alyssa can do for her."

She ached.

Her back was stiff, and her belly ached – but she was warm. Jean-Luc must have been lying against her, keeping her from moving – he did that, his arm wrapped over her as he slept, holding her against him in his tender, protective embrace until her presence against his naked body stirred him as it did each morning.

She never protested his early morning desire to make love; in the dark of their apartment, in near silence, they coupled, wordlessly but passionately, their lovemaking intense, physically sating them both… and then they fell back into sleep, wrapped once more in one another's embrace.

She loved it; she loved sleeping with him, making love with him – and soon, she thought, soon they would be joined by their child.

A child, she thought drowsily. Our child. For all the years we spent apart, to finally have a child together, raise together – to bring up together in this strange, but wonderful, world of their past.

It was all so good, she thought; so good to be with Jean-Luc, to be his wife. For all the work, the challenges, the difficulty of living in this backward world, being with him made it worthwhile, she thought.

She tried to turn, not wanting to wake him, but her back ached – and her belly hurt.

The baby? she thought, suddenly worried, one hand moving to her belly.

Even in her half-asleep state, she realized something was wrong. Her belly, which should have been round with their unborn child, was flat and hard.

She wasn't pregnant.

Shocked, she half-opened her eyes – and to her horror and shock, found herself looking up at a too-familiar ceiling.

Sickbay, she thought. I'm in Sickbay.

I'm hurt or sick – and I'm in Sickbay.

On the Enterprise.

In our time.

And everything I thought had happened…

It was all a dream.

A dream.

Loving Jean-Luc, marrying him… Oh, God, it was only a dream.

Heartsick, she choked back a sob.

"Beverly?"

Hearing his voice, she turned her head weakly; it was good to see him, sitting beside her bed, holding her hand – but he was dressed in a uniform, she realized, not in the loose fitting shirts and jeans she had envisioned him wearing in her glorious dream. He was handsome still – but the clothes only served to remind her that everything she had thought she had experienced had been anything but real.

The sense of anguish and loss threatened to overwhelm her, and tears welled in her eyes.

"Beverly? Are you in pain? Shall I call someone?"

She shook her head, closing her eyes against the tears. "No. No… it was just a dream," she said, more to herself than to him.

"A dream?" he echoed.

"Just a dream," she repeated.

She could almost hear his smile. "Tell me about it."

She shook her head. "Just a dream. A glorious dream."

He tightened his hand over hers. "Then go back to it," he said softly. "We'll be here when you wake up."

She closed her eyes, then felt his weight shift; he was standing, readying himself to leave, she thought – then felt him lean over her – and his lips, soft, tender, gentle, pressed against hers.

Her eyes flew open.

He was kissing her.

"Jean-Luc…"

"Shh. Go to sleep," he repeated. "We'll be here until you wake up."

We.

She forced her eyes to focus, slowly realizing that the man hovering over her was carrying a small bundle.

"We?" she said.

Smiling, he lowered the bundle closer to her, pulling back the blanket. "It's a boy," he said proudly. "We have a son."

"A son?"

He nodded, then leaned forward to kiss her again. "You were magnificent," he said.

She stared at him for a long moment, then raised a hand to his face. "You look tired," she said.

He smiled. "I'm all right – now that I know you're all right," he said. "I love you. Once you're asleep, we'll go back to our quarters and get some sleep…"

"No. Don't go… please," she said, then pushed back the blanket on her bed, touching it, inviting him to join her. "Stay here."

Jean-Luc hesitated; Dr. Ogawa wouldn't approve, he knew… but Beverly wanted him – wanted them both – by her.

Despite her discomfort, Beverly moved her body to one side of the bed, then watched as Jean-Luc carefully placed their sleeping son beside her – then took his place on the opposite side. Pulling the blanket over his wife and child, he wrapped his arm over her, securing their son between them.

Beverly watched him for a moment, then closed her eyes.

After a few minutes, the room's movement sensors noted that there was no one awake in the room; the lights dimmed – and the family slept.


	53. Chapter 53

January 1, 2012

Picard glanced at Data, who touched a control on the console, then nodded back. "You may proceed, sir," he said.

Picard touched his commbadge, waiting for a moment, then heard a tired voice answer.

"Hello?"

There was a gasp, then a cry. "John! It's John! Everyone, it's John!" the voice announced excitedly – then returned to the phone. "Where are you? Where's Beverly? The baby? Did you have the baby? Is he all right? Is he a he ? Wait! Let me put you on speakerphone! Everyone! It's John!"

Jean-Luc looked to Beverly, now settled in a bed in their quarters, their son nursing at her breast.

"To answer your questions: He's a he," Picard replied proudly. "Seven pounds, four ounces, twenty-one inches long…"

"Eyes! Hair!"

He tried not to laugh. "He has both," he replied. "Hazel eyes…"

"Like his father," Pat replied with a joyous laugh.

"And red hair," he added.

"Like his mother. And Beverly? Is she all right? When we got to the apartment… Oh, God, John, we didn't know what to think – all that blood…"

"Beverly went into labor last night – but before we could get to the hospital, she had the baby… There were complications…"

"But she's all right?" Pat pressed.

Beverly smiled. "I'm all right, Pat," she called loudly.

"She'll be all right," Picard amended. "They want to keep her here for a while – a few days at least."

"And here? Where's here?" she insisted.

Picard hesitated; he had hoped that this wasn't a question Pat would ask. Not that he didn't have an answer: they had carefully prepared the lie – but there was a difference between preparing to tell her something, and actually going through with lying to his friend – let alone announcing it to everyone at the New Year's Day brunch.

"She's… being cared for," he replied obliquely.

"Told you!" Gy's voice echoed through the phone. "They're off at Tranquility Base or wherever the hell the Feds take their operatives!"

Picard smiled. "We're not at Tranquility Base, Gy. Let it suffice to say that we're both safe, and Beverly's getting excellent care."

"And…?" Pat pressed.

"And?" he repeated, confused.

"When are you coming home?"

Picard looked at Beverly, his smile fading. "Um… It may be some time, Pat," he replied. "Until then, would you ask Gy to cover my classes?"

"Ask Sandra if she can cover the shop?" Beverly called out from the bed.

"Of course we can!" Pat insisted – then a faint click told the two that they were back on a more private connection. "You are coming home, aren't you?" she asked softly.

Picard hesitated. "Pat… the people here… they're helping us to rectify what happened last year. To put our lives back together."

For a long moment there was silence on the phone, then Pat spoke. "Whatever you have to do, John," she said. "But know: this is your home – and there will always be a place for you and Beverly and the baby… The baby!" she suddenly exclaimed. "What did you name him?"

He looked back at his wife, who only smiled. "We're still working on that, Pat. But I will let you know," he said, adding, "We'll call you in a few days – once everything's settled."

"All right. Give Beverly a hug and a kiss from everyone here," she said softly. "We love you all."

Picard nodded to himself, then spoke. "Good-bye, Pat."

He touched his badge once again, waited for Data to confirm that the connection had been broken, then sighed.

They couldn't simply disappear, he knew; that might create as many ripples in the timeline as their presence had done. A phone call was the barest minimum they could offer their friends – but, Picard admitted, it was not a fulfilling end to the friendships – and more – that they had found in the last year. Unsatisfied, he moved to his wife's side, seeking solace in her presence – and in that of their son.

The baby had finished nursing, falling asleep even as he ate, his cherubic face pressed to his mother's breast; reaching for their son, Picard raised him to his shoulder, gently rubbing the infant's back.

Data stepped from the communications console to join the two. "I take it you are feeling better, Doctor?" he asked.

"Terrifying as it was, post-partum hemorrhage is not that unusual – and, thanks to Jean-Luc's clear head…"

"… and your preparations…" he replied.

"… it was not life-threatening," Beverly concluded.

"Not that I knew that at the time," Picard said.

"Nor I. It can be fatal," she explained. "But even before you had us beamed up, the bleeding was stopping; if he had done nothing else, I still would have recovered – slowly, and uncomfortably – but I would have recovered," she assured the android. "Being here though – Alyssa was able to complete the delivery of the placenta, transfuse some fluids, and use the regeneration beams to speed my recovery. One day of recovery," she said looking at Picard.

"Instead of six weeks," Picard said.

"Or more; six weeks for recovery from childbirth – but surgery in the twenty-first century can mean months of recovery," she pointed out.

"Months?" he repeated stonily.

She smiled. "Just be happy we were beamed back," she told him.

He smiled back.

Data looked at the two, curious. "You do not look happy," he commented.

Picard looked at his old friend, surprised.

"Leaving Starfleet has granted me exposure to a far greater number of humans – and non-humans – than I had previously encountered. Not just in number, but also in character and personality. Individuals within Starfleet comport themselves differently than those who are not," he informed them. "There is a greater degree of control and reserve in Starfleet members than in the public at large. I have noted that non-Starfleet officers tend to control their emotions: your mouths smile, because that is the expected reaction – but your eyes do not reveal the same emotional content. You are not happy," he concluded.

That brought a genuine smile from both humans. "I'm happy that we are back… for Beverly's sake," Picard replied. "Watching someone you love suffer through a long recovery is not something I wanted for her – or for myself," he admitted.

"But…?" Data asked.

Picard looked at his wife.

"We were gone for a year, Data, from our point of view. We experienced so many things that required us to adapt to that world – and it forced us to change what we do, how we do it – and how we think," she explained.

"To a degree, we are still in that mindset," Picard continued. "This is… foreign. It's familiar, yes – but in the last year, we had come to think of Batavia as home, and what we were doing as our work. It's going to take us some time to adapt back," he explained.

"More than 'some time'," Beverly pointed out. "It was a year for us – but six years here. That means I'm six years behind in knowing what has happened in medicine; Jean-Luc is equally behind in what has happened within the quadrant and within Starfleet."

"It has put us in a position of having to consider what we are going to do now that we are back; it's no longer a matter of stepping back into our previous roles," he explained. "Those roles are filled by others – and even if they weren't, we aren't qualified to fill them anymore. To some extent, we are back where we were on Earth."

"A fish out of water," Data offered.

Beverly smiled. "Just so, Data."

The android nodded. "Having left Starfleet, I, for a time, found myself in a similar position. I was so familiar with the behaviors and expectations of life within Starfleet that I was unprepared for life outside that milieu. It took some time for me to find my own way," he admitted.

"But you did," Picard said.

Data nodded. "I did," he said – and smiled.

Data smiled.

Smiled, Picard realized. A real, genuine, very human smile.

"Data!" Beverly gasped. "You're smiling!"

"You," Picard agreed, stunned, "have emotions."

"Indeed – though I would ask that you not reveal this to Captain Riker – or anyone else. There are occasions when being able to 'fit in' with others becomes advantageous."

Beverly's brow wrinkled. "I don't mean to contradict you, Data, but you're hard to miss. Your skin, your eyes…"

He moved toward Beverly, pulled back his sleeve, rubbed his arm gently – and revealed skin that was far closer in color to hers than to the ghostly what she remembered.

"Data," she said, surprised.

"Once out of Starfleet I allowed myself the time – and resources – needed to continue Dr. Soong's work. Changing my skin color was not difficult. Indeed, I also possess optical units that display more… standardized… eyes color," he said. "It facilitates matters."

"Matters, Data?" Picard asked. "What 'matters'?"

"There are issues, sir, that concern me," Data answered. "Issues that are important to me; issues I wish to address. Issues where appearing as 'just another guy' is expeditious. You see, sir, it has come to my attention that Starfleet is not the only game in town.".

Beverly chuckled. "'Not the only game in town'?" she repeated, bemused by the android's choice of phrase.

"There are," he explained, "other ways to accomplish one's goals. Starfleet – and in turn, the Federation - are noble organizations, intent on benefitting the majority of the individuals living throughout the quadrant through the recognition and support of their efforts to live independent and fulfilling lives, while embracing the continued exploration of space and welcoming those races and species who would like to join them into the organization. But," he continued, "joining such an organization can be limiting as well as fulfilling. For all that it offers, Starfleet and the Federation extract a price."

"What price, Data?" she asked.

"It cost you your lives, Doctor," he admonished her gently. "Starfleet was willing to sacrifice you. I felt that price excessive, and opted to leave to pursue the possibility of a rescue."

Picard shook his head. "That was generous of you, Data – but too generous. To give up Starfleet for us…" He shook his head again, disapprovingly.

Data raised a brow. "With all due respect, Captain, it was not your choice to make. If you have taught me nothing else, you have taught me to make my own decisions, based on my personal values and morals. You were my friends; I found the cost more than reasonable," he said mildly.

Picard studied the man for a long moment, then stepped closer to him, extending his hand. "Thank you, Data. Thank you," he said.

"You are more than welcome, Captain…"

"Jean-Luc," Picard corrected. "If you are no longer in Starfleet, than calling me 'Captain' is unnecessary – especially as I'm not entirely sure I am still a captain," he added with a glance at Beverly. "I'm told I was granted a posthumous promotion – though now that I'm back among the living, I gather there is some debate about the matter," he told her.

Data considered the point. "You are more than welcome… Jean-Luc. I wanted to point out, however, that while giving up my position in Starfleet may seem excessive, I do have the option of returning at a later date and re-establishing myself within the organization. Repeating the training and the re-establishing my tenure is simply a matter of time – and as my life expectancy is estimated to be in excess of ten thousand years, I have that time; indeed, I will most likely outlive Starfleet – and perhaps the Federation itself.

"But it is unlikely that I will," he admitted."Without the bounds and constraints of the rules and regulations of Starfleet, I have discovered that I can do more than I was previously able; I can help those whom I chose, and in the manner I chose. I can act to save planets that fall outside the bounds of the Prime Directive; I can assist individuals whose needs are deemed too minor or too insignificant by the Federation. I can, sir, make a difference… and I have. Beginning with locating you," he explained.

"For which we thank you," Picard replied.

"So what's next, Data?" Beverly asked. "Now that you've rescued us, what are you doing next?"

The android considered, then crossed the room, retrieving two chairs, and placing them near Beverly's bed. He gestured for Jean-Luc to take one chair, placed himself in the second one – then looked at the two humans.

"Actually, Doctor, that is the question I have for you two. As you stated to your friend, Jean-Luc, you are now with people who can rectify the situation in which you found yourselves; people who can help you put your lives back together.

"My question is: what are you going to do with those lives?"


	54. Chapter 54

January 7, 2012

A shadow passed before the front window of the coffeeshop – and has she had done every day for the last five days, Pat looked up, hoping against hope that it would finally be John, Beverly and their baby.

It wasn't, of course; it never was. This time it was two teenagers; seeing her gaze, they waved, talked for a moment, then pushed their way into the shop.

"Couple of bulldogs," one said. "Extra peanut butter," he added.

Pat smiled. "Anything else?" she asked as she began to prepare the espresso.

"Got any of cranberry muffins?" the other asked.

"Uh-uh. I want a carrot muffin," the first replied.

"Two bulldogs, two muffins. Anything else?"

The kids looked at each other, shook their heads, then handed her a debit card.

"Ten oh two," she said, swiping the card, then handing it back. "Why don't you have a seat and I'll bring it over to you,"  
she added.

"Thanks," one said, then headed to the large couch that was seated before the window.

Peanut butter, chocolate syrup and espresso, Pat chuckled to herself; it had sounded horrible the first time one of her customers had suggested it – but the drink had quickly caught on in the small town, earning the name of the local high school football team.

She poured the espressos into two cups, then added the milk, chocolate and peanut butter; with a practiced twirl, she blended the ingredients together, topped them with whipped cream, placed two muffins on a pair of plates and arranged everything on a tray.

Carrying it to the pair, she arranged the cups and plates before them, then straightened, looking out the picture window at the site of the old school.

The sign was gone now, moved to the new location on River Street; indeed, nothing of their former business remained. The front of the building was now encased in scaffolding and wrapped with plastic wrap against the cold wind that gusted up Wilson Street; beyond the opaque shield, she could see workmen beginning the arduous task of demolishing the interior structure of the building, carefully removing every trace of asbestos and mold and God-knew what else.

A good thing they got out of there, Pat thought; it was a cute place for two young newlyweds – but a family needed a home that was safe and healthy.

And one that was ready for them, she added. After John's call on New Year's Day, she had gathered her brunch guests together, returning them to the school, directing them to move the last of the furniture and boxes to the new house while Fred and Gy had thrown out the ruined mattress; confident that they would be returning soon, she had instructed everyone to arrange the furniture, unpack the boxes, and make the old farmhouse ready for the return of the new family.

And then she had waited.

It had been almost a week now – and not for the first time, Pat began to acknolwedge that they would not be returning.  
John and Beverly were not coming home.

She nodded, accepting that painful fact. They had had a life before they came here, she reminded herself – a life that, for whatever reason had been taken from them. Now they had a chance to regain that life, she knew.

But it was a life that they would no longer be a part of, she realized.

She turned from the window, wiping a tear from her eye.

I should be happy for them, she reminded herself; we shared a good year – but people move on.

As they had.

Another shadow crossed the window – and despite her knowledge that John and Beverly were not coming back, Pat looked up. It was a single man this time, his head bent into the strong winter wind.

Not John, she thought. Not Beverly.

Steeling herself against the pain, she turned away, straightening one table, checking the cream and milk pitchers, glancing at the levels of hot coffee in the thermal carafes.

She had thought once that she would never miss this routine – but there was a relief in having the task. Just sitting at the house only served to make her miss her friends all the more; at least here she had something to do.

Until the night; until the time when she would have been calling them, reminding Beverly to have a good dinner, or to chat about some bit of area news – or just to talk to them.

She missed them.

She glanced up at a new shadow – but it was three people this time; not her Beverly and John. This was a pair of men and a woman, all dressed in elegant winter coats, hats pulled down against the wind, scarves wrapped around their faces, the wind whipping the woman's brilliant red hair around…

Red hair.

With a cry of relief, Pat raced to the door and pulled it open even as John and Beverly stepped into the shop.

Relieved and elated beyond words, Pat simply pulled them into her arms, crying and hugging them. "Oh, my dears! My dears!" she gasped, hugging them tightly – then pulled back, realizing they weren't alone.

Close against her chest, Beverly held her warmly wrapped son.

"The baby!" Pat said excitedly – then looked at her friends. "Oh, Beverly. You sit down. You probably shouldn't be on your feet yet! You look wonderful – but you sit down. John, you take the baby… No, I'll take the baby," she amended, taking the infant from his unprotesting mother, moving the blanket from his face, and beaming at her new godson.

"Aren't you just the sweetest thing?" she cooed. "You are you father's son, aren't you? All the girls are just going to be in love with you," she purred – then looked at the couple. "He is just the most precious thing!" she gushed – then stopped, realizing that the third person who had been walking with them was standing beside John, watching her in bemused silence.

"Pat," Jean-Luc said, "this is an old friend of ours, David Soongh. He's going to be staying with us for a while."

Pat stared at the unusual-looking man, then shifted the baby in her arms and extended a hand. "Hello, David. Welcome.  
Can I get you a coffee? Tea?"

Beverly started to answer for the man, but Data answered. "Thank you – but I do not wish to interfere with your reunion. I have heard quite a lot about you and your son, Mrs. Edrickson; it is a pleasure to meet you. Jean-Luc, Beverly, I wished to do some research at the library. Shall I meet you later?"

"We'll come get you when we're done here," Picard said.

Data nodded, then adjusted his scarf in preparation for a return to the cold. "Again, a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he said, bowing over her hand, then leaving the shop.

"What a strange man," Pat said quietly.

"Yes – but brilliant," Picard offered.

"As if the people you know were anything but brilliant," Pat pointed out.

"He's also one of the nicest people you'll ever meet," Beverly added. "He'll be staying with us while he works on some research."

"Nonsense," Pat said. "You two are going to need your privacy – and having a newborn isn't going to make a guest feel very welcome, and God knows none of you are going to get any sleep. No, David can stay at our house," she said.

Beverly smiled. "Thank you, Pat – but that's not necessary. Data… David knows what he's in for with us – and it's only for a little while. He has plans," she added.

Pat nodded, then looked down at the babe in her arms before returning to look at her friends – who were not sitting down, she realized. Moving to one of the tables, she pulled out two chairs, nodding for them to sit then took a third chair for herself.

"He's a darling," she cooed, then looked at the two with frankly appraising eyes. "And you two are looking pretty good yourselves," she said. "A far sight from the first time I saw you," she added.

Bedraggled and sodden, she had seen them as little more than homeless strays then – but today? No: John was wrapped in a perfectly tailored camel's hair coat, a wool hat now in hand, thick leather gloves covering his hands, while Beverly wore an equally flattering coat of long black wool that fitted her frame perfectly.

"You've figured out everything, then?" she asked. "Money, credentials...?"

Beverly nodded. "We have. My medical license has been reinstated and recognized here in Illinois; John's records have been updated and our bank accounts and back pay re-established."

"And…?" Pat pressed.

"And…?"

"And are you two staying on?" she pressed.

Picard gave her a quizzical look. "Unless Gy's decided to return to teaching," he said.

Pat chuckled. "No. He's aching for you to return to the school. Literally. The boy's been living on ibuprofen for the last week. Guess he got out of shape fast when he stopped teaching. And you, Bev? Do I have to start looking for a new general manager?"

"I'm going to keep on with my research with Sho – but long distance for the time being," Beverly said. "I worked as a doctor while I was raising my first son; with your kind permission, I'd rather work here this time around, where I can spend time with the baby. But maybe fewer hours?" she added hopefully.

"Sandra won't argue with you," Pat replied. "She's made some serious money here in the last few weeks – more than she made at the bar – and more than she made with her degree. But I don't think she's planning on doing this long term," she added.

Beverly smiled – then winced.

"Oh, goodness, dear! You should be home in bed. Hold on; I've got some stew going in the back. Let me put some together…"

"I'll get it, Pat," Picard said, rising to his feet. "You two just visit."

Pat watched as the man walked away, then looked back at Beverly. "How does he keep getting more handsome every time I see him?" she asked.

Beverly smiled. "I ask myself that every day," she agreed.

Pat looked at the baby. "Don't you take after your papa that way, little one. You keep it in your pants until you find the right girl – you hear me?" she admonished the infant. "Your papa waited for your mama; you do the same thing. Don't break too many hearts – okay?"

He looked at her blankly, then balled up one fist and tried to move it to his mouth.

"Hmm, time for a snack," Beverly realized. Easing her coat from her shoulders, she took the baby into her arms, quickly adjusted her top, and with a flash of skin, positioned the baby to her breast. Another adjustment of the blanket and the feeding baby was discreetly covered.

"You've done that before," Pat chuckled.

"It's been a long time – but I guess there are some things you never forget," she sighed.

Pat watched her for a moment, then met her eyes. "Beverly, you and John have no obligations here – not to me or to Gy.  
You've worked out all the problems you had with – well, with whoever dumped you here last year; if this isn't where the two of you want to be, then don't stay. We want you to be happy, dear; above all else, we want you all to be happy."

Beverly looked at her son – then met Pat's gaze. "Pat, we had the option of staying back there; we had friends – dear  
friends - there. But… they moved on. They found their own ways in that life – and we realized we weren't a part of that anymore. We couldn't be part of that life again. But more than that: we realized we had a life here. With you, and Gy and  
Ralph and Sandra… We want to be here, Pat," she said softly.

The older woman wrapped her arm around the nursing mother, kissing her on the cheek, trying not to let the tears that were leaking from her eyes touch the woman's face – then pulled back as Jean-Luc approached, a large bag in his hand.

"Stew, bread, some juice and rolls for breakfast," he informed her.

"I'll stop by the store on the way home," Pat said. "Your house is ready for you – but I didn't want to get any groceries until…"

"Until we came home," Picard concluded for her. "Don't worry; I can go shopping tonight…"

"Nonsense; you and Beverly and your friend David are all exhausted. I'll stop by later and make sure you're all settling in – including you, young man," she said, smiling down at the baby.

He pulled away from Beverly's breast, meeting Pat's gaze.

She reached for his hand, touching the tiny fingers – then glanced up at his parents. "So, did you decide on a name?" she asked.

Picard smiled, then crouched down beside her. "We have indeed. Pat, please meet… Patrick Gyorr Picard."

Pat stared at him. "Patrick?" she repeated, stunned. "You named him… for me?"

"And Gy," Beverly said.

Pat looked at the two, then at the baby, the tears rolling down her cheek. "Well then, Patrick, do I have some stories to tell you about your mama and your papa."

Data removed his hat, and though he didn't feel the relative heat of the library, he followed the practice of the locals, sliding his coat off and placing it on the chair beside him as he sat down.

A man took the chair on the other side of him. "So?"

"They decided to stay in this time frame," Data informed him. "Obviously."

"And you?"

"I cannot effect changes to this timeline while remaining in the future," he pointed out. "I will acclimate myself to this time, and then I will leave the Captain and Dr. Crusher…"

"Jean-Luc and Beverly," the man corrected.

"I will leave Jean-Luc and Beverly to their own methods and goals while I attend to mine."

"Meaning…"

"They will act locally; I will act globally. With luck we will change that which must be changed while allowing that which should remain to do so," he said.

"Sounds like a plan, Data," the second man chuckled.

"And already some things have changed," he replied, reaching into his suit coat pocket, withdrawing a small piece of paper.  
He handed it over.

"This was the only reference you found?"

"The archives of this time were all but obliterated during the war. That I found this reference was fortuitous; if I had not, we would not have been able to find them."

"And they don't know about this?"

"No one knows. I did not think it prudent to reveal it to Captain Riker; I was concerned that they might feel my actions would affect the timeline," the android said.

The second man looked over the article, then crumbled it in his hand and tossed it aside. "Clearly they did," he pointed out.

"Indeed. We have changed the timeline; the one before us now lies untouched, ready to be shaped by those who live here,"  
Data agreed, then faced the man. "Wesley, you should visit your mother. She worries about you."

Wesley grinned. "I will, Data – soon. I promise. I'm looking forward to meeting my step-brother. But I have some work of my own to do first. Don't worry; I'll be in touch," he added, then rose from the table.

Data watched him walk away – then realized that the man was no longer present, if he had ever been there.

Alone again, he reached for the discarded piece of newsprint.  
_**  
Area teacher and wife killed in accident.**_

_John and Beverly Picard and their newborn son were killed in a tragic accident on Wilson on the night of December 31, 2011. They were driving to Delnor Hospital after the birth of their child when their car was struck by a drunk driver. The family was killed instantly. The driver is being held without bond. Funeral arrangements are pending._

Data glanced at the paper, then crumbled it once more before rising from the table and placing the paper in the trash receptacle.


	55. Chapter 55

_January 8, 2012_

I'm not entirely sure where to begin.

Deanna has given us these journals, urging us to keep a log of our thoughts and feelings as we begin this newest – and perhaps greatest – adventure, though whether she did so as an act of friendship or as an act of our former counselor, I do not know. I suspect that, perhaps, in our absence and in the passage of time, she has lost the distinction between the two.

For us, after all, it has been the course of but a single year since we last saw our friends; the memories we had of them remained fresher, newer, and more accurate, I suspect, than their memories of us – after all, we had, from their perspective, died; live memory faded and changed, replaced with exaggerations of what they thought they remembered – rather than what we really were. For us, there was always the thought that our friends were alive – and perhaps we might see them once again.

Somewhere in that process, I suspect that became, in Deanna's mind, a colder, more emotionally controlled man than I truly was – though I will admit that concept was solidly based in reality. As such, she must have thought that my need for an emotional outlet cold be served, in part, by keeping the equivalent of my personal log – a place where I could record those thoughts I once dictated into a machine – though her presentation of these paper books does betray her unfamiliarity with our time.

Our time.

I chuckle, saying it so easily. Our time – their history.

But I digress: Deanna's gift was one of bound paper books, so that even in the primitive times we could record our thoughts as well as the daily events we experience. I think she might have been more than a little surprised to discover that the computers of this time, while far less intricate than ours, are more than capable of doing many of the same things – including recording journal entries.

Or perhaps her gift was one meant to acknowledge my love of tradition; there is something tactile and sensual in holding this pen, writing these words…

But the need to do so faded months ago. Sharing a life with Beverly does not allow for that type of emotional isolation; like it or not, she expects me to share myself with her – to express myself, to let her know what I am feeling and thinking – and what I need and want.

And I find I expect – indeed, I savor – the same revelations from her.

Then again, it is hard to be emotionally distant from someone when you make love with her every day. I can't look into her face as the physical and emotional sensations of our passion surge through me and not want to tell her how much I love her, I much I relish her touch, her caresses, her gentle kisses… and that intimacy has come to extend through all aspects of our life.

That intimacy and trust in one another's open honesty was essential in our last few days on the Enterprise. It allowed us to openly discuss what options lay before us: stay – and try to discover a new life for ourselves, as the lives that we had left has passed away, or return to our new found lives here.

Beverly's medical knowledge and technical skills could be regained, her position re-established – but at a cost she was no longer willing to pay: years of learning and practice would be needed – but having sacrificed her time with Wesley for that same goal, she was not willing to do that with our son. She wanted to be with our child as he grew up.

And perhaps with our other children.

I say that with more joy than I could have previously imagined: first in learning that the events of Patrick's birth, while terrifying, were not life-threatening, even if we had stayed in this time – and, had Beverly been in a hospital, could have been addressed safely and promptly – but secondly, that there is little risk to her if we choose to have another child.

Another child. I had never thought that I would have been a good father or even want children; those small beings terrified me – so small, their minds working in such diverse ways – but to find they are open and loving and giving without restraint, and that within them lies our future – what once terrified me now thrills and delights me. To realize how we can shape that future through education and love and nurturing… I chuckle at that thought – that I would hope to change the world not through myself, but through them.

As for me… there simply was no way for me to return to being the captain of the Enterprise. Maybe the captain of some ship – maybe – if Starfleet decided that my skills had not become too rusty, my abilities not too out-of-date – neither of which was likely, to be brutally honest. In the timeline we left behind, the last conflict with the Borg left the Federation victorious – but short on ships. Captains, however, they had in great quantity – and ones who were not six years behind the times.

I've taken a moment to re-read this – and it has occurred to me – who else will? Will they take these writings to be the fantasies of an old man who has lost touch with reality? Indeed, do I want posterity to see these ruminations of mine? Should they? Should my knowledge of what is to come ever be made public - and alter the future's timeline –or should the fact that Beverly and Data and I plan to deliberately change the path this world is following invalidate my notes of the my past?

I don't know; I cannot know. But, for now, I will continue to record my thoughts – then put them away. Let my act of recording them suffice; future generations need not know where we came from – or where they are going.

Wesley's home! After all of these years, there was a knock on the door – and there he was! I was so shocked I didn't even know what to say – I wasn't sure it was him, or just my imagination… I just remember hugging him and crying, then Jean-Luc's arms were wrapped around the both of us… My family. Our family.

…calls Jean-Luc "Captain"; Jean-Luc tries to get him to call him by his first name, but even so, I think he rather likes this one reminder of our past. And Wes is such a good big brother; he plays games with the baby, and even though Patrick's far too little to even smile yet, I know he loves being doted on by his big brother.

In the midst of all this, I learned that Sho's thesis was accepted! I am so happy for him! He's been asked to join the research team at Johns Hopkins researching the use of oncogenes in the treatment – and perhaps prevention of cancer – and he has asked me to join him.

I declined, of course; Patrick is still far too little to not be with his mother – and I don't want to sacrifice my time with either of my sons or my husband for anyone or anything. Not even for the future of our world. Still, we're going to conference with one another by internet on a daily basis – and I will plan to travel to see him once I'm sure that all of my men are able to handle a few days without my being here.

Our world. I still laugh when I realize that we have made the commitment to staying here – and how easy that decision was. I truly thought Jean-Luc would want to stay on the ship – but distance and time seemed to have provided him with a different perspective. The realization of just how political the Federation was – and by default, Starfleet itself – and how each of his actions were less that of his own conscience and more that of others has struck at him deeply – and as much as he might deny it, I know that he was disillusioned with the situation that surrounded him.

Was working for such a politically driven organization such a bad thing, I asked myself – and know the answer is 'no'; there was so much good done and for so many people that it outweighs the problems it created. But if I had to choose between following the orders of some unknown admiral, whom I've never met and do not know, or the conscience of this one man, who I love and trust, the answer is an easy one.

…some things that Will didn't need to know. The replicator that we had removed from the shuttlecraft should have lasted us only a few years – but Data has developed a power system that will allow us to continue to use it for at least the next generation. It is not infinitely powerful, of course, but Beverly is able to produce the medications and vaccinations we require – and, in an act of selfishness for which I will not apologize, vaccines for our son. If the war is to come, he will be safe from the rampages of the diseases that follow…

Nothing happened today. Jean-Luc and I laughed and smiled and made love throughout the day in celebration, with little Patrick and William staring at us in confusion. Nothing happened today!

The nuclear power generators in Japan that had been damaged in the earthquakes and tsunami only three years ago did not melt down today; the explosions that rocked that country and led to the devastating fall out of radiation that killed one hundred thousand did not happen; the government of North Korea did not rage against the loss of life that resulted – and war was not declared.

Data says we had nothing to do with this – and indeed, we could not have. At most the only effect we could have had so far in this time was with dear Fred, who decided to join Habitat for Humanity now that he's graduated from the university; he's using his knowledge and skill to help build homes for those who otherwise could not afford it. We're so proud of him… as I'm proud of Jean-Luc's student, little Tyler.

He stood up for a girl at the school playground yesterday; she was being bullied, and he stood up for her, telling the boy who was bothering her to leave her alone, blocking his punch a moment later – and not throwing one in return. Of everything that has happened here since we arrived, this was one of Jean-Luc's – and my – proudest moments.

A girl! We decided on Deanna Jordan – Jordan as a feminization of Geordi – a few months ago – but after two strong and healthy sons, we were fairly certain that a girl's name wasn't going to be needed.

Now that we have a girl, however, I plan to convince Beverly that this should be our last one. I love our children – but I love Beverly more – and this pregnancy has taken a toll on her. I will not have her producing children just to maintain the Picard name or out of some erroneous thought that I want more children.

Nothing is more important than Beverly is.

Beverly and Deb would disagree with me on this point, of course; somehow they think that our little girl will 'wrap me around her little finger', if I may quote Deb, and provide for her every desire. Nothing could be further from the truth, of course; I'll not treat her different than I treat Patrick and Will.

I do agree with them, however, on their other point: woe unto any young man who plans on dating my daughter.

…simply astounded! Both Jean-Luc and I had thought that the Picard family was flourishing during this time period. When we arrived in LaBarre, however, only one Picard remained on the estate – if you can call that ramshackle shed on two acres an estate!

Michelle Picard is in her late seventies; childless and unmarried, she is the last of this branch of the family tree – and much like Jean-Luc, she both savors her solitary lifestyle while regretting that the family was about to die out with someone to carry on the family name. I think she was relieved to find out that the Picard line has persevered, if in a distant land.

Beverly and I have talked about it at great length. We decided that it would be too much of a disruption for the entire family to move to France while the house is being built – so I will travel there, alone, to oversee the various stages of the construction. I hate the thought of being away from the family for such long periods; I've not been away from them for more than a few days at a time – and the thought of not sharing my bed with Beverly every night is both emotionally and physically burdensome.

To my surprise, however, Michelle was more than happy to accept our offer for the house and land; she's already found an apartment in Paris and has moved in - and while we offered to build a room for her exclusive use – or even a small outlying home on the property so that she could stay in LaBarre, she has declined. Tradition dictated that she oversee the family estate; freed of that obligation, she has decided to enjoy the years left to her as she had wanted to in her youth.

…how he does it is beyond me. He comes home after these long trips to France, kisses me soundly, then plays with the children for hours before having dinner with us, then putting them to bed – and all I can think of is taking him to my bed!  
Even now, he's talking with Patrick, watching the video of the school play – while I sit here, writing, aching for the man to take me and make love with me all night long…

_Patrick's quite gifted with language, and while William's French is not much better than that of his mother… Beverly just hit me – reading this over my shoulder once again! – Jordi has taken to our adopted country as if she was born here. This summer vacation in our new family home in LaBarre will be a proving ground for deciding whether we will move her permanently, or make this little more than a vacation home._

I'm not sure which one I would prefer. Though I was born here – or rather, I will be born here – Batavia has become our home as well, and moving away from Pat and Ralph and Gy and Sandra is not something that will be easy for any of us.

But with the sale of the school to the Joseph and Robert – who are running it as well, if not better, than I ever did – we're financially independent even without Beverly's income from her work with the Sho's cancer research team – and without considering the accounts we set up before leaving the Enterprise, and Data's investment strategies that have left us with enough money to be able to act as we think we must to help our world as best we - Beverly, Data, Wesley and I – can.

I was saddened to hear about Gy and Sandra's separation; they are a lovely couple – but people do grow in different directions. Jack and I had our difficulties; I'm not sure how long our marriage would have lasted if we had been given the chance. It's not that I didn't love him – I did – but he was traveling around the galaxy with Jean-Luc while I was at home, raising Wesley as a single parent while attending medical school full time – there were strains that were developing, and that could have damaged or destroyed our marriage had we had the chance. Jean-Luc and I haven't faced those same issues – but we were far older when we married – and circumstances kept us working together, rather than going along our own paths. Certainly Gy and Sandra have been going in their own directions for the last few years – Gy's been focused on his custom woodworking business while Sandra has been doing research in her field… It's been good for them as individuals to pursue their own interests, but there are times when I suspect they wish they were doing nothing more than going to that anime convention – together. Perhaps Gy spending a few weeks in France at our home will give him the opportunity to think about how he wants to proceed.

If he gets a chance to think; despite having already made a cradle for the babies and a bed for us, he's now in the process of making a formal dining table – and the design is almost the same as the one Jean-Luc claims was on the table in the house when he grew up here.  
_  
_Almost – but not quite. I'm not quite ready for the circle to come around quite that completely!

**Papa says I'm a big boy now and I can have a jurnle like his and Mamas and Patricks. I get to write in it every day! Jordie says she wants one to, but Papa says she has to wait until she ate years old like me!  
**

I don't even know what to say. I'm… shocked.

Terrified.

Thrilled.

Beverly's pregnant.


	56. Chapter 56

_(January 8, 2012 – part 2)_

_Maman and Papa came home from the hospital today with our new brother. They named him John Howard Picard – but they are calling him Jack. Maman told me about her first husband, and that they wanted to name the baby for him and for her family; Father said that maintaining traditions – like honoring those we loved – help to make a family stronger._

We decided to surprise them, too! While they were at the hospital, Uncle David and Wesley helped us plant some oak trees like Papa has been talking about. We put the biggest one up on the hill – then we all sat under it and watched the stars come out. I think it's going to make Papa very happy.

So much for traditions.

Jordi has taken to oenoculture – indeed to all things related to botany and plants – with a passion that I don't remember in even my father or brother. She's announced her plans to enter university and study so that she can restart the vineyards.

Patrick, on the other hand, has been accepted into the United States Diplomatic Corps, working in Paris with the French delegation –the first diplomat to carry the Picard name.

William seems a little more uncertain about his future; he's passionate about everything… for a day or a week or a month – but he has not yet found his calling. Whatever it is, he will embrace it passionately.

And little Jack… I can't help but smile when I think of him. He is as happy as his namesake, just loving his life with the innocence that only a child can possess.

As disparate as they are, they are my children – and I love them more than they can ever know.

Father and Mother never cease to amaze me. Knowing how they both love astronomy and have supported our efforts to globalize the exploration of space, I was able to secure an invitation to the prelaunch ceremony for the Phoenix – and then was able to arrange for them to meet with Zephram Cochrane, who was principally responsible for the design and building of the ship.

The others in the receiving line were so awed at meeting him that they barely managed to speak; Father gets to him, shakes his hand – then asked about the issues they been having with interlock mechanisms in the plasma flow restrictors. Five minutes later, the two are in the corner, chatting like long lost friends, drawing diagrams all over the tablecloths and napkins.

And Mother managed to do the same with Lily Sloane – asking after her mother and her recuperation from being treated for breast cancer. It turns out that Maman had been working with the doctor who was overseeing the treatment. And of course, that got them started talking about the radiation protocols used in the Phoenix…

I give up; how do they always do that?

The Vulcans landed on Earth today – and today, everything changes. But the world the Vulcans found in our timeline isn't this world; this world has pulled together to resolve its issues without having to do so by surviving a war – and still managed to send a warp ship into space.

Given this, I wonder how the Vulcans will treat our world and the people that live here. Will they still treat us a primitives who should be shielded from everything that space has to offer – or will they be forthcoming with their knowledge?

Oh, to still be here in fifty years – but I think that soon, all too soon, this world will have to go on without me.

There is a last time for everything.

Time and age has taken its toll on my sweet husband. Over the last few days, old friends have stopped by to visit with him one more time – and to say their good-byes. Wesley and Data have come home as well, knowing that Jean-Luc's time is almost over.

I helped him get out of bed this morning, helped him to the shower and helped to bathe him – but being Jean-Luc Picard, he couldn't help but surprise me one last time.

He took me to our bed one last time, made love with me – not as vigorously as we once did, but with a tenderness and a romantic passion that only time can grant – then held me for a long time. It was our last time, and we both knew it. I kissed him, my sweet love, then helped him dress so that he could say good bye to our children, to Data and to Wesley and to our grandchildren.

He spent a long time with Wes – and when he left, Jean-Luc seemed calmer, more at ease.

I sat with him, holding him as he held me, talking with him, feeling him slowly loosening his hold on this life.

Finally, he turned to me, kissed me, and told me that he loved me.

That he had always loved me.

That he would always love me.

And that not even death would change that.

I held him for a long time after that, then finally called for our family.

I found her on her bed this afternoon.

She had been so lonely since Papa had died – but Maman had known what it was to go on, to persevere after she had lost someone she loved. She held out for a few months, waiting, I think for the winter to end, for the summer to return so she could join him when it was warm and sunny.

She was wearing the dress that Papa always said he loved on her, her hair brushed and neatly arranged, the way he liked it – and she was lying on her side of the bed, her hand outstretched as if she was reaching for something.

For Papa, I realized.

He had come for her today – and she finally was ready to go with him.

And for a moment tonight, just as the stars were coming out, I thought I saw them both, under the old oak tree, holding hands.

There have been many who have called me the Father of the Federation – but no man stands alone. Whatever I have accomplished, it has been because I grew up in a family that supported one another with love, understanding, unlimited patience – and unlimited tolerance.

To my family, then, I dedicate this book: to my brothers, Patrick and Jack Picard, my sister Jordie Louisan-Picard, my brother Wesley Crusher, my uncle David Soongh, my godparents, Gyorr Edrickson and Patricia Edrickson – but especially to my parents, Beverly Howard Crusher Picard and Jean-Luc Picard, without whose unceasing support and love I would not have been able to do what I have done, to become the man I now am.

Maman and Papa – thank you.

I love you both.

William Picard  
First President of the United Federation of Planets

With exaggerated care, Jean-Luc Picard closed the ancient diaries that he had been studying, then closed the old book, glanced at his padd - then looked up as his name was called.

"Jean-Luc? Are you done with your report?"

"Just finished," he replied, then touched the 'save' button, put the report aside, carefully returned all of the books to the shelf, and hurried into the kitchen. Taking his place at the table, he reached for the plate of apple slices – then slowed, stopped, and looked at his parent.

"I wrote my report about Jean-Luc Picard," he said carefully.

"Oh?"

Jean-Luc hesitated. "We had to write about someone in our family and I was named for him…"

"And…?"

He raised a brow. "And what?" he asked.

"And there's something you're not saying, Jean-Luc. Something you don't want to tell me."

The eight year-old boy sighed unhappily, not wanting to say what was weighing so heavily on his thoughts – but knowing he was going to have to do this one day.

"I… I want to join Starfleet," he blurted out at long last. "Not because of the report!" he added hastily. "I've wanted to join for a long time."

There was a disapproving sigh of response. "Jean-Luc, in our family, tradition is very important. Your brother Robert understands that; he's going to study oenology at university, then come back here and run the vineyards…"

"Yes – but…" he hung his head, knowing that tradition was important – but that it wasn't a tradition that called to him.

"Son, come here."

Unhappily, Jean-Luc rose from the chair and moved to his parent's place at the table, preparing himself for the lecture he knew was to follow – but to his surprise, he was lifted up and placed on his father's lap.

"Tradition _is_ important, Jean-Luc – but you were named for your great-grandfather because we knew, even from the moment you were born, that you were a boy – a man, someday – who would create his own traditions, just as he did. And while I am a man who follows traditions, your antecedent made sure one of those traditions was to love your children whole-heartedly and without limitation, even when they go in their own directions."

Maurice Picard held his son to his chest, enveloping him in his arms, then placed a kissed on the little boy's head. "I love you, son. I will always love you. Here on the estate – or off in the stars. You are my son. Now," he said, glancing out the window, "the sun is almost down – and your stars are waiting. Go to them."

Stunned, Jean-Luc hugged his father, planted a messy kiss on the man's cheek, then raced for the door. "I love you, Papa!" ha called back.

Maurice smiled. "As I love you, my son. As I love you."

(Where to now, Wes?)

(Everywhere and everywhen. Whatever you want. Are you ready, Mom? Captain?)

(Call me Jean-Luc, Wesley. Beverly? Are you ready?)

(As long as we're together.)

(Always. Now let's see what's out there.)


End file.
